Aftermath and Affection
by wilma.de.worde
Summary: In Progress. Four months after their encounter with Moriarty, the Watson-Holmes family struggles to recover and move forward. (Graphic imagery; Johnlock; Parentlock; Mollstrade; plenty of time with Hamish and Will; TW: PTSD, past torture, past abuse, past drug abuse; proposals; Sherlock is really sick of serviettes.)
1. Chapter 1: Innig

Hamish awoke to a strangled cry from the next bed. His eyes fluttered open and took in Will's white, sweaty face. His chest rose and fell rapidly in the soft light from the window. Hamish waited for his breathing to slow and watched his growing Adam's apple bounce.

The nightmares were growing worse.

After a moment, Will felt eyes on him and turned. His cheeks grew paler at the look on Hamish's face.

'I can't sleep,' Hamish offered. The responding flush of gratitude almost made him cry.

Will scooted back against the wall and lifted his well-loved quilt. Hamish clambered out of bed and crawled beneath it, snuggling against his brother. He listened to Will's hammering pulse.

'I don't like the dark anymore, Mish.'

'I never liked it.'

'You're much smarter than me.'

Hamish wished Will knew that wasn't true, that Hamish might read more but Will was always the one with the clever schemes and quick thinking. 'I like it even less now.'

Will sighed, his eyes searching the ceiling. 'I'll never like it again.' Hamish decided he didn't care that Will was too old for such things and wrapped an arm around him. Will clutched it gently. Outside the window, a passing stranger laughed.

'Mish?'

'Yeah?'

Will swallowed again. Hamish craned his neck to watch the slow parade of emotions that crossed his brother's face. 'Please don't tell Papa.'

Hamish curled closer, tucking his head under Will's chin. 'He wouldn't like it.'

'I know. I just want a chance to sort it out myself before I make him worry.'

He nodded. 'I won't say anything.' Will gave his arm a companionable squeeze. 'Dad's bound to figure it out.'

Will hesitated. 'I know. I think he already has.'

'I think so, too.'

Will sighed. 'Well. That's Dad, isn't it?'

Hamish smiled and settled against his collar. 'That's Dad,' he agreed.

A floor below, their father wasn't sleeping either.

Four months should be plenty of time to recover. It certainly had been for the number of dreadful things that came before. Yet here they were, still knee-deep in all of it. Will was having nightmares and Hamish was always standing a bit closer to him than was necessary. John was watchful and twitchy and not eating as much as he should, one ear cocked to the door, one hand close to his waistband, the creases above his brow and at the corners of his mouth growing deeper by the day. And he wasn't sleeping himself. The surgeon had said he needed to sleep. Strange how something that had never held any import in his life could be such a clear indication of his uneasiness.

Eleven years. It wasn't anything new, the knowledge that Moriarty was nearby and content to postpone their meeting until Sherlock let his guard down. The man had blown his own brains out and still managed to show up and lead him on a miserable chase. Sherlock remembered the odd gratitude that had filled him on that day so long ago: sitting rigid in his too-comfortable aeroplane seat, knowing he was on his way to his (_actual, real, in-the-ground-and-never-ever-coming-back_) death, John's awkward, strained chuckle echoing through his head…and then the call. The game was on once more. And he didn't have to leave him again after all.

He'd been _thankful_. He hated himself for that but it was true. He'd allowed Moriarty to toy with him and run him ragged and evade capture because Moriarty had rescued him. Those dark, demented eyes and that delighted smile when they'd finally met once more, he _knew _the bounds of his gratitude. He knew Sherlock owed him now. He would expect to be repaid. And he didn't mind waiting at all.

Eleven years. The debt of a boy's lifetime. A debt that demanded collateral.

He was out there now, somewhere, hidden and quiet and laughing to himself. And Sherlock had no idea where to look. Sherlock had no idea how to keep them safe. It was tearing them all apart.

Mycroft had wanted to put them into protective custody, take the boys someplace far away and keep them safe from the ticking bomb that was their father. But John-wonderful, trusting, exceptional John; his companion, his best friend, his conscience and humanity and every good and righteous thing in this godforsaken world-John had looked at his brother and _smiled_. It was a smile Sherlock loved and feared: tight-lipped and collected and humourless; the smile that stated as clear as day that the mountain was awake and the villagers ought to evacuate now or there would be no survivors.

'Mycroft,' he'd said, quiet and deep in his chest, sending a thrill up Sherlock's spine that he would make a point of discussing at length once his brother had cleared out and the boys were in bed. 'Please suggest that I can't take care of my family again. I would _love _to see what happens.'

So they kept together. That was the most important part, of course. But now that they _were_ together and would _stay_ together, everything was _still_ crumbling around him. He didn't know what to do. Would he ever know again?

He felt warm, moist lips at the juncture of his jaw and neck and couldn't resist sighing. John nuzzled behind his ear. He cleared his throat. 'How did you know?'

'That you were still awake? Easy: I didn't feel like I was kipping with an enthusiastic octopus.' He was smiling. How did John always make him smile? The world was ending; he shouldn't be pleased in the least. 'You're thinking too much again, aren't you?'

'No such thing.'

'Mm. There is. You're very good at it.'

'Will's having nightmares.'

'I know.'

'So are you.'

'Yes. I have them a lot.'

'Not anymore. Not before.'

'I have a history.' John's thumb found his bottom lip and he realised he'd been chewing it. He sighed, his teeth closing down on the digit just above John's nail. His skin tasted like toothpaste tonight. John curled in closer, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. 'What is it, love? You've been off in your head for days.'

'I know.' John's hand shifted away, tracing the line of Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock swallowed and wondered if he'd possibly gone mad. 'Do you remember what we talked about in Brussels?'

'We talked about a lot of things.'

'Yes, but do you remember _the _thing we discussed?'

He could almost hear John's brow furrow. He held his breath. John's fingers slid around to the side of his neck as his face came into view: perplexed and amused and just short of believing. 'Are you talking about what I think you're talking about?'

Sherlock gazed at him a bit too long. 'This is a very inefficient conversation.'

'Jesus Christ-' John sat up, turning to face him head on. 'Sherlock, are you talking about when you proposed to me?'

'I believe _you_ proposed to _me_-'

'Are you talking about _our proposals_?'

'Possibly?'

'That's very helpful, thank you.'

'We should get married.'

John gaped. 'What, _now_?'

'As soon as possible, yes.'

'Why?'

'What?' he sneered, 'What do you mean, "why"? You wanted to do at one point!'

'Why _now_, Sherlock?'

'You know why.'

He rolled his eyes; never a good sign, but at least he was smiling. Things were better when John was smiling. 'I have a guess, yes, but I'd appreciate elucidation all the same.'

Sherlock sat up on his elbows and took a breath. John was making a point of being patient and it was both endearing and extraordinarily irritating. 'I can't lose you again, John. Yes, I know, you're not going anywhere; don't look at me like that. But all the same, this would sort of, well, make it official. And legal, I guess. So there wouldn't be any questions. About things. If things arise.'

John's eyes were dancing in the dim light from the street. 'You're really rubbish at this when you're not drunk. You do realise that, don't you?'

'Yes, and you're making it much easier, thank you.'

John chuckled, rough and warming. 'So by "things", do you mean…what? Guaranteed conjugal visits once you finally get arrested?'

He rolled his eyes. 'The will, the trust, hospital rights, avoiding any unforeseen guardianship issues with the boys-'

'Sherlock.'

'It would be the responsible thing to do. I thought you went in for that sort of thing.'

'_Sherlock_.'

'I just- I need to know that our affairs are in order.'

'So this is just to make legal matters easier?'

'Don't be absurd.'

'_You're_ being absurd.'

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was going about this all wrong-he was very aware of that-but the right words seemed to be stuck somewhere, lost forever. He lay back against the pillows and tugged John closer, rolling to his side and tangling their legs together. John's smirk was half-cocked and gorgeous. 'I know I'm cocking this up, John. I don't mean to be.'

'I know, love.'

'I want to, though. I want to marry you. I want it on paper and filed away somewhere that there's only one person in the world to whom I belong and I was clever enough to find him. I want an official record that we're partners, legally, and it will take a lot of paperwork and unpleasantness to change that fact. I want to feel utterly ludicrous in a room full of too many people just so I can prove to everyone we know that I did something right for a change. Because I _did _do something right, John, and I still have no idea how I managed it, but you're here and our sons are upstairs and a lunatic just tried to take them away from us and take me away from you, and the only thing that makes any of that marginally tolerable is the fact that I keep waking up from these horrible dreams and you're still in bed beside me. And, honestly, if we have to endure all of that wretchedness anyway, the very _least _we're owed is a ridiculous certificate saying that we're still here and we're united and there's not a damn thing Mycroft or Moriarty or _anyone_ can do about it.' John cupped his cheek, and Sherlock couldn't decide if he was going to laugh or cry. 'I cocked it up again, didn't I?'

'Shut up.' John kissed him, his body rolling flush against him, fingers tangling in his messy curls. 'Yes; of course yes, you stupid git.'

'Really?'

'Absolutely. You'd be lost without me, for God's sake.'

'I would be. I'd be completely doomed.'

'Can't even say a proper proposal. You're an idiot.' Sherlock laughed into John's mouth. 'Why on Earth do I love you so much?'

'I don't know, John. I honestly have no idea. Please don't ever stop.'

'Never. You know how much paperwork bores me.' Their lips found each other again, and Sherlock drank him in until they were both breathless. 'When?'

'Soon, please. Before I can cock up enough to change your mind.'

'Stop saying "cock". It's distracting me.' If Sherlock were not incapable of such things, he would say that John's command made him giggle. John simply grinned harder and nipped his lower lip. 'We should tell the boys. They'll die of shock.'

'We can always make some more.'

'No. No more. After this, I'm not sharing you with anyone.' Sherlock's kiss was sloppy and joyful. John laughed. 'You're mad. My mad genius. I'm never letting you go again.'

'I love you.'

'You're clever like that. God, Sherly, shut up. I've got much better plans for your mouth.'


	2. Chapter 2: Vorgetragen

The scent of crepes and frying bacon wafted up the stairs and brought Will nose-first into wakefulness. Something was up; he knew it as well as he knew this room and the smell of his brother's soap and the 'secret' location of his father's stash of Jaffa cakes. Hamish shot up beside him, hair mussed and eyes still puffy from sleep.

'Is that-?'

'Yes.' He swallowed. 'Father's cooking.'

Hamish's eyes went wide. 'What could it be?'

Paranoia crept in as he racked his brain for any recent calamities that may have caused this sudden display of paternal affection. There was the obvious, of course, but it seemed a bit late to try and ease his trauma with a liberal application of bacon and brandy. Aside from that, however, life at Baker Street had been trickling back to what they considered normal: Dad was back on the occasional case; Papa was picking up hours at the surgery (although very few and only while they were at school); even Aunt Molly had cut down on her visits and was again on her usual Sunday rotation, now with Uncle Greg in tow. 'Something must have happened last night.'

'Oh no…' Hamish fell back against the pillow, his hands on his face. 'I swear, if Uncle Mycroft says we have to spend another fortnight in Gloucestershire, I'm running off to Barcelona and hiding with Uncle Sherr.'

'Not if I beat you there.' He swung his legs over the side of the bed and jabbed Hamish's belly with his index finger. 'Come on. Best to get this over with.'

It wasn't as if Will and Hamish didn't enjoy their father's cooking. It was quite the opposite, actually. He attended to any dish with the same focus and diligence he applied to the grizzliest of crime scenes, and the result was always mouth-watering perfection. It was the rarity of the event that warranted suspicion. Dad cooked breakfast on birthdays (not applicable), Christmas Eve (months away), and, inexplicably, 3rd November (it was March). On all intermittent days, the appearance of his early-morning catering was an omen and usually a bad one at that. Papa had left suddenly for Aunt Harry's or Gran and Grandpapa were coming for an unscheduled visit or Mycroft was meddling in their affairs again. His succulent dishes were his way of apology and comfort, and the boys had learned to be wary of these meals.

It was with cautious eyes that they watched their father as he finished piling up their plates with what would no doubt prove to be the best breakfast they had had in weeks. Papa sat impassive at the table with his morning cuppa and the paper Dad had probably nicked from Mrs Hudson's door. Will's skin was tingling with anticipation. Hamish kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

'There we are,' Dad said, setting down the matching plates before going back to collect one for Papa. He returned after a moment with his own small plate: another dangerous sign. The boys exchanged knowing looks. 'Go on, tuck in. It's better hot.'

'What's going on?' Hamish asked. Will kicked him under the table and received a glare.

Papa folded the paper with far more focus than was required and set it squarely on the table before taking a long sip of tea. 'Who said anything was going on?'

'You did. Just now. You're using the voice.'

Dad was grinning. Papa shot him a look. 'He's _your_ son.'

'He's _our_ son.'

'Papa.' Will cleared his throat. 'Papa, Dad's cooking breakfast and it isn't October and you're too calm and we're not stupid.'

'Of course you're not, darling,' Dad cut in. He was eating. He was actually, physically eating like it was the most natural thing in the world. Will couldn't help but stare.

'Dad?' Hamish sounded so small next to him. His eyes were fixed on the now-empty fork in their father's hand. 'Are you dying?'

'Not in the least. I am known to be indestructible.'

Papa bit back a smirk. A _smirk_. Patricide was becoming a more attractive option by the minute. 'What's gotten into you two? Aren't you hungry?'

Without a second thought, Will grabbed his father's mug and sniffed it. _Sugar_. Papa had _sugar _in his _tea_. Sugar and his best dressing gown and, god, the good brandy Mycroft gave them last Christmas on the worktop and Dad had definitely nicked Papa's cologne again. He glowered at his father and set down his mug. 'They're up to something, Mish.'

'Something bad?'

'Devious, maybe. Not bad.' Dad chuckled and _took another bite_. 'You're not nearly as sneaky as you think you are, you know.'

'I am making no attempt whatsoever to _be _sneaky, William.'

Hamish peered at him, his bright eyes subtly flicking over his father's face. 'Your shoulder is hurting this morning.'

'Very good.'

'Papa must have slept on it. You didn't make him move. This is only the second time he's forgotten about your shoulder since we got back from hospital. The first was a week after.'

'That's correct.'

'Which means you had intercourse last night and it was really good.'

Will blanched. Papa sat back in his chair, his arms crossed and a bemused smile on his face. 'Hamish, please tell me your father hasn't been discussing our sex life with you again.'

'He might have just been overtired,' Dad replied.

'No. Papa wouldn't forget you were hurt unless he was completely distracted. Balance of probability, you distracted him with intercourse.'

'Could you _please _stop saying "intercourse"?' Will whinged.

'And since he was such a mess the last time it happened and he'd never do it again on purpose, there had to be a reason why…' Dad raised an eyebrow in obvious challenge. Hamish frowned and glanced around, spotting a notepad next to Papa's phone, days and times listed in military fashion and the word _Registrar_ in his careful block print. His eyes widened, his head whipping back to his father. 'No!'

'Yes.'

'Seriously?'

He shrugged. 'Why not?'

'What is it?' Will demanded.

'They're planning a do.'

'Don't be stupid.'

'Will.' Hamish turned to his brother, his solemn expression making his words unnecessary. 'They're planning a _do_.'

Will stared at him, his mouth agape. He turned to his fathers, the same aquatic expression plastered to his face. 'You're joking!'

Papa looked at Dad, their hands finding each other under the table. His smile was downright soppy. 'I'm afraid not.'

'But _why_?'

Dad grinned, his eyes still on Papa's. 'Odd. That's the same thing your father said when I asked.'

'It's a bit queer, isn't it? You've been together for ages.'

'Yes, which helps to guarantee the long-term success of our union.'

'I didn't say it wouldn't be successful. It just seems a bit pointless is all.'

Papa cocked his head to one side. 'It's not your decision, Will.'

'I know! I just want to understand, that's all.'

'It's the trust, isn't it?'

It was always a little funny to him, that when Hamish spoke, their parents always listened. It was almost like they didn't expect it, even after all this time. 'It is,' Dad replied, 'But not entirely.'

'The trust and us almost dying and everything.' He said this casually, as if he'd been stating that it might rain later.

'That certainly plays a factor, yes.'

'So it's for us?' Papa's eyes found his once more. 'Hamish and me?'

'It's for all of us, bug. It's so the whole world understands what we already know.'

'Since when do we care about other people's opinions?'

'We don't. But we don't want them to have any ground to stand on either.'

Will watched him a minute, the contracting of his pupils that always gave away his true defiance. Papa was preparing for battle. The whole thing was as simple as that. He felt a smile creeping across his mouth. 'I'm not wearing the outfit.'

Hamish huffed and rolled his eyes. 'Of course you are, stupid.' Papa's brows rose in surprise. Hamish shrugged. 'He'll see that the girls fancy him more in it and he'll never take it off. Obvious.'

Will flushed, but thought it better not to give Hamish the pleasure of a retort.


	3. Chapter 3: Bewegt

It felt good to be back at the surgery. As much as he loved tearing after Sherlock, scouting the city for ne'er-do-wells and leaping across rooftops, he'd missed the more normal aspects of his life. Sherlock wouldn't understand it if he told him. He thought John's work boring. But it was good for John to get some time away, to be forced to focus on other people's problems. Flu and piles were so much simpler than his current lot. At the very least, he knew what to do to fix them.

He didn't, for instance, know what to do about Will's nightmares, or how to apologise for them. He knew they were his fault, that his own history played a significant part in Will's daily terrors, but how was he to reconcile that with a twelve-year-old boy? How could he explain that the reason Will suffered so much more visibly than his own brother was because he drew an unfortunate flush in the biological cards?

It was better to be here, to soothe scraped knees and banal viruses, to do what little good he could in the world. It gave him time to think and a chance to forgive himself. It gave Sherlock room to work without having to worry about John having yet another sleepless night.

It would be better soon, he told himself. They'd all be so much better with time.

He was going to keep repeating that until it turned out to be true.

Cassandra popped in with some tea and a flirty grin, pulling him away from his darkening thoughts. 'Did you hear the news just now, Doctor Watson?'

'Can't say I have. Been a bit busy.' He offered a smile in return. She didn't notice when it didn't reach his eyes.

'Only there's been a bit of a shooting at a school in Marylebone. Terrible shame.'

He nearly spat out his tea. 'There's been a _what? WHERE?'_

She was too flustered to be of any assistance, and John was already out the door by the time she recovered, his coat and patients forgotten. He was on the phone and in a cab in no time. 'For god's sake, Greg, tell me it's not St Mary's!'

He sounded as weary as John was frantic. 'You would've been the first to know, mate. Portland Place. Some chav thought it'd be a laugh to bring his dad's rifle in to show his mates. Gun went off in the corridor; no one was hurt.'

'Christ.' John sank into the back of the cab, his heart pounding tympanic. 'Jesus Christ.'

'I sent Sally to St M's first thing. The boys are both in class, didn't even know it'd happened.'

'Thank god…' He tasted bile in his throat, his whole body a mess of cold sweat. 'Th-thank you, Greg. I mean it.'

'You alright?'

'Yeah. Of course. Just needed to hear the good news is all.' He rubbed his clammy palm against his trouser leg.

'Right. Glad I could give it to you.' John nodded, willing away Greg's awkward silence. 'Hey, Moll and I aren't up to anything this evening. Why don't we swing by and take the boys to the pictures? There's that new superhero thing out. Will loves those.'

'Uh, yeah. Sure. That sounds nice.' He swallowed, fumbling for his wallet. 'Let me, uh, check with the other half. Make sure nothing's on.'

'Right. Well, give us a ring. We're both free at six.'

'Yeah. Cheers, mate. See you later maybe.' He hung up in a daze, passing a tenner to the cabbie as he lurched out onto the kerb. He wiped at his brow and found it dripping with sweat. '_Christ_.'

Sherlock was in the kitchen, as John knew he would be, oblivious to the drama of the last few minutes. His brow had no doubt furrowed the moment he heard John's tread on the stairs, but now his eyes were wide and worried. 'John?'

John found he couldn't speak. His pulse was still beating a stuttering tattoo, blood roaring in his ears. His hands shook as he reached for the sofa, falling into it gracelessly. Sherlock was beside him before he noticed where he'd landed, warm arms wrapping around his trembling frame.

'It's all right, John. Everything's all right. Shh…'

'God, Sherlock-'

'I have you, darling. I'll always have you.'

He wasn't certain how long it took to come back down to earth. In that time, he'd been wrapped in the afghan from the back of the sofa, his tie and shoes removed, his collar unbuttoned. He snuggled into the old sofa, his ears picking up the soft conversation from the kitchen. Sherlock had phoned Sarah - that much was clear - and was inventing some sort of acceptable excuse for his sudden departure. He smiled a little to himself and felt a pinch of his anxiety leave him.

'It's been going around the school for weeks now. …No, not me; I never do. …Well, I assume it's because I'm not human…'

John shook his head and kept his eyes closed. Sarah wouldn't discourage Sherlock's phrasing, but he knew she didn't believe it. It simply wasn't in her nature to compliment a man who had nearly, albeit inadvertently, caused her untimely demise.

'I certainly will. …Plenty of fluids, lots of rest, he'll be right as a trivet in no time. …I will. …Hamish too. …Thank you, Sarah. Good day.'

The sofa sank beside him after a moment and long fingers slid into his hair. He sighed, feeling his limbs relax under the touch. 'You're not much of an actor, John; I can see your lip twitching.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he murmured.

'Of course not. Are you going to tell me what happened?'

He sighed again, far less relaxed than he had been a moment before. 'Does it have to be right now?'

'No. But I'm told I grow more obnoxious as my curiosity increases.'

John couldn't argue with that. 'Shooting at a school.'

'Not St Mary's.' It wasn't a question.

'Portland Place. No one was hurt.'

'And Lestrade?'

'Sent Donovan to check on the boys. I think she wanted to have a look in on Sam as well.'

'Understandable.' He tugged the hair between his fingers gently, his eyes drawn to the movement. 'You found out at work. No details, just that there was a gun at a school.'

'Cassandra told me.'

'She's an idiot.' He nudged John's cheek until he opened his eyes. His face was so close, green and silver irises searching for further information. The hand against his scalp eased its pressure and slid to cup his cheek. Sherlock placed a gentle kiss to his lips. 'Shall we meet them for the walk home?'

John studied him a moment before nodding. 'Let's, yes.'

'Hm. There's a new gelato establishment on the way back. I think we'd all fancy a treat.'

'You mean _you'd_ fancy a treat.'

'I am included in "we", aren't I?' He wiped at a tear just cresting the corner of John's eye. 'Perhaps the Tate tomorrow? Or a trip to the zoo? It's been a while since we had a day out.'

'Yes.' His heart was swelling, relieved tears threatening to erupt. He settled for squeezing Sherlock's hand and offering a watery smile. 'Just us and our boys.'


	4. Chapter 4: Gebunden

He didn't need Dad's deductive powers to know that the whispers in the corridors were about him and his brother. Any idiot could have figured that out, and he was quite certain at least two hundred and eight already had. It didn't matter to him, really; he was used to being the topic of fascination among his own class, so why was this any different? It was simply a larger pool of onlookers. But he hated that Will-likeable Will, clever Will, the cause of an impressive number of stuffed bras in year six-was suddenly the subject of such ridicule. It seemed to throw off the whole balance of the cosmos.

It didn't help that the scrutiny had intensified, that the curious glances had been replaced by physical confrontations. He hoped that Will hadn't been subjected to the kind of locker room antagonism he'd received, but it was easy enough to picture Harley Jameson shoving him against a wall and yanking down his pants to see if the rumours were true. He didn't think Will could handle that. He wasn't sure if he could handle that happening to Will either.

It was odd how their positions had reversed in the preceding months. He wasn't at all comfortable with the new status quo. Will was…fragile; there was no other word to describe it. He jumped at out-of-place noises and refused to go to bed before Hamish, no matter how tired he obviously was. He had all but quit football, saying that he preferred to walk Hamish home and check that Dad hadn't lit the kitchen on fire. He was quieter, withdrawn. It wasn't like him at all.

Hamish had felt himself swell to compensate for the loss: making conversation where there needn't be any just to fill the silence; requesting outings to pictures and the park, not because he had any interest himself, but because Will liked to do those things. He was discombobulated by the whole experience. It was bad enough taming Will's nightmares and dodging bullies at school; must he alter his entire personality as well?

But it was necessary, wasn't it? Will couldn't make Papa laugh right now, so someone needed to do it. Will couldn't ask for a trip to the zoo, but staying at home was killing him. They'd gotten away from the man in the hat, from Moriarty, from hospital. What was the point of surviving if their lives had lost the spark Will brought with him?

His thoughts muddled and frantic, he didn't notice Ms Stoker until they'd almost collided. She made some good-natured reprimand as he apologised. That seemed to happen a lot of late. He was finding it more and more difficult to avoid getting lost in his own head, his mind filled with anxiety and speculation. He missed daydreaming about the books he was reading, Papa's stories, new experiments. This constant worry wasn't any fun and he had yet to find a way to stifle it.

He heard footsteps behind him, quick and light, a slight lilt on the left side. He sighed. 'I'm going to the library and you can't talk me out of it.'

Sam fell into step beside him, her eyes no doubt rolling. 'It's still creepy when you do that.'

'Haven't you heard? _I'm _creepy.'

'You're not creepy; you're just weird. Come play with me.'

'No, thank you.'

She sighed. ''Mish, you can't run from them forever.'

An image flashed across his eyes of a few days before: Timmy and Jason's stares as Clayton laughed so hard his eyes watered and Hamish tugged his trousers back up to his waist. He hated himself for meekly slinging his bag over his shoulder and leaving the room, for not being brave enough to tell Ms Stoker or the Headmaster or Papa. Dad had looked at him a little longer than usual when he got home, but hadn't said anything. Later he'd come upstairs and left a mug of cinnamon milk at his elbow, ruffling his hair before heading back to the kitchen. Hamish had needed to curl up under his desk until he could breathe again. He swallowed at the memory and Sam's knowing gaze.

'I'm not running from them. I have a lot of work to do.'

'You can't spend your whole life hiding in the library.'

'Maybe _you _can't…'

'Just sock them and get it over with.'

He stopped in his tracks and stared at her. 'I don't hit people, Sam. Maybe you go in for that, but I don't.'

'Okay, so _I'll _hit them.' She grinned at him. She had lost a tooth recently and the jaunty gap made him smile. 'Their lot never can handle being hit by a girl.'

'Sam, _no one _can handle being hit by _you_.' His voice betrayed a long history of personal experience.

'You can thank my mum for that.'

'I won't.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Anyway. What are they supposed to think with you hiding from them all the time? You've got to show them you're not afraid.'

'There's a huge difference between "afraid" and "non-confrontational", and not just etymologically speaking-'

'And it's really not healthy to eat a dictionary for breakfast neither, you prig. You gotta think like them.'

Hamish stopped in his tracks at the idea, his face turning blank. 'I can't imagine anything more appalling.'

'You know what I mean.' She took him by the shoulders and turned him to face her. ''Mish, you're my best mate. You know that.'

'I do?'

'And you're great, you really are. But you're also… You know. _You._'

He blinked a few times. 'Cheers, Sam; that was quite enlightening.'

'I mean, you don't think like the rest of us. You don't follow our rules.' She took a breath at his continued quizzical expression. 'When a bloke debags you, you're not supposed to walk away.'

He felt his ears redden and ducked his head. 'Ah. So you heard.'

'Everybody heard.'

'That's…disappointing.'

'You should've pummelled him.'

'What good would that do?'

'What _good_?' For a moment he was certain she was going to strangle him. 'It's _good _to stand up for yourself! It's _good _to show him he can't push you around! It's _good _the whole school doesn't think you're a nancy!'

The words were out of her mouth before she realised what she was saying. Her teeth clicked shut and her cheeks burned. Hamish was looking at his shoes, an odd little half smile on his face. She had long ago learned to be wary of that smile. Her mum once told her she'd seen it on Dr Watson's face one too many times. 'The whole school thinks that, do they?' he murmured.

She cleared her throat and forced her spine to straighten. 'Not everyone. Not me.'

He nodded as if to himself and sucked on his bottom lip. She blinked and his eyes were boring into hers. Sam's breath caught a moment at the steady storm brewing. 'Sam, if that's the worst everyone is saying about me, then I think there's a lot to be said for hiding in the library.'

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and resumed his trek down the corridor, his step surer than when she'd first seen him. She watched him a moment before she turned and hurried to the playground. It was weird, of course, but then so was Hamish. And she had to hand it to him: he knew how to end an argument.


	5. Chapter 5: Wenig

He didn't think it would ever cease to amaze him that nights like this could happen in their flat: nights that were so effortlessly _normal_. Of course, 'normal' still included an earlier debate as to whether or not a disembowelled starling should cohabitate with the broccoli in the crisper drawer, but these sorts of terms were always open to some interpretation. The current scene in the sitting room, however, could take place in most any Western home. Will was folded into Sherlock's chair, head bowed over his chemistry manual and scribbling out notes. Sherlock was stretched over the sofa with Hamish lying on top of him, his upturned nose in a book as usual. For anyone else, their positions would have been uncomfortable; but Sherlock was so lanky and Hamish so small, they fit together perfectly. Hamish's curls brushed the heels of Sherlock's hands where they were steepled beneath his chin, and he seemed quite unaware of the rise and fall of his father's chest below him. To Sherlock's credit, he was feigning a comprehensive cleaning of his mind palace. Only the tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

John smiled to himself and shook his head, turning his attention back to the laptop in front of him. For a moment, the only sounds were the clicking of his mouse and the scratch of Will's pencil. Hamish turned a page.

'Unbelievable,' John muttered. Sherlock offered a vague hum. 'The prices for some of these venues are highway robbery.'

'What happened to the registrar office?' Will asked.

'Hudders.' It could have been a reply or an involuntary exclamation. It was hard to tell with Sherlock. Will took it for an answer.

'She does love seeing you dolled up, Papa.'

'Thank you, Will. It's still unsettling you think our landlady finds me attractive.'

'She does find you attractive, John,' rumbled the sofa.

'Don't encourage him, Sherly.'

Will set aside his schoolwork and joined his father at the desk, nudging his hand aside to scroll through his current options. 'Cor, these places are right out. Yours and Mum's weren't like this, was it?'

'There were magpies on everything,' Sherlock murmured.

'Papa, no…'

'Not my choice, alright? Your mother had a very…unique vision when it came to our wedding. Lots of lavender.'

'Lilac.'

'_Purple_.'

'Okay, none of that, then.' Will plopped into his father's lap and opened a new tab. 'We've got quite enough purple around here already.'

Sherlock peeked an eye open to glare. 'Was that directed at me, William?'

''Course not. I was talking about us living with Prince.'

His brow furrowed. 'Which prince?'

'Will, don't get him started. It'll be Freddy Mercury all over again.'

'Why not just do it at Gran's house?' Hamish had somehow managed to perch on the arm of the sofa between his father's feet. 'They've got a big garden.'

'Yeah! And the inn there is alright if you don't mind Mr Murray's smell.'

''S not his fault he's got a condition-'

'Alright, children, that's enough. I'll add that to the list of things I don't want to know.'

'It's not a bad idea, John.' He gave Sherlock a wide-eyed stare. 'Truly, they'd be delighted to host. We could rent a marquee if you still want to have a meal.'

'That's way too much work for them-'

'Nonsense. Mycroft will no doubt take over everything the moment he gets there.'

John felt his jaw drop. 'We are _not _letting your brother plan our wedding!'

'Well, someone needs to manage it,' Sherlock shrugged. 'And I've had my fill of planning dos.'

'You_ can't _be serious-'

Will hopped off of John's lap and headed for the sofa, tugging his brother after him. 'That's our cue.'

Hamish let loose a dejected sigh as they trudged up the stairs. 'Maybe we can ask Uncle Mycroft to pay for their counselling fees...'

'We do _not _need couple's counselling!' John shouted.

'It's okay, Mish. Lots of kids come from broken homes these days.'

'_William Morstan_!' He spun towards the sofa at the sound of a growling chuckle. 'Are you encouraging this?'

'Of course I am, John. That's the first bit of cheek I've heard from William in days.'

His expression softened at the realisation. 'I suppose it is, isn't it?'

'Indeed. I've missed it.' Sherlock smiled up at him, his eyes beckoning him closer. John stepped over to the sofa and nudged Sherlock, settling next to him. Sherlock's head immediately snuggled into his lap. John scratched at his scalp. 'You're worried about something again.'

'I'm constantly worried, love.'

'About the boys?'

'Usually.'

'Children are often bullied by their schoolmates. I know I was.'

The fingers in his hair froze. 'They're being bullied?'

Sherlock took a moment to consider his options. He frequently forgot that John was not always as aware of evident facts as he was, but he had made a concentrated effort over the last decade to be more mindful of this shortcoming. The boys, however, were a very different story. John was the first to notice when one of them had a cold or a raw shin or a frustrating day. He could guess their desired Christmas gifts with mind-boggling accuracy. He read their moods and movements like Sherlock read a crime scene.

The current facts:

William was quiet, withdrawn, devoid of his usual dark sense of humour.

Hamish was overly protective, loud, demanding physical closeness from one or both parents with a frequency he hadn't required in years.

While these traits had occurred immediately following the incident with Moriarty, they had increased tenfold since their return to school, and were now accompanied by shuffled feet, downward gazes, and a general disinterest in associating with their peers.

The idea that John could have missed something so obvious left Sherlock gobsmacked.

Not to mention that he wasn't certain he was in a state of mind to manage the pending wrath of Watson.

'Did they tell you this? Who's bullying them?'

He swallowed. It was an easier question, but not by much. 'Of course they didn't tell me. I observed.'

'Jesus Christ! Why didn't they say anything?'

'They don't want to worry you.'

'Who would do such a thing?'

'I don't know, darling-'

'Well, what are their bloody teachers doing about it?'

'John.' He was sitting up, a hand on John's clenched fist. John took a breath and turned to him. 'Their teachers don't know. The headmaster doesn't know. If they haven't told you, you know they haven't told anyone else.'

'But- _why_?'

He hated these kinds of questions. It wasn't fair, that some questions couldn't be answered, not even by a mind as finely tuned as his. 'Hamish is frequently teased. He's comfortable ignoring it. And William-'

'It's the panic attacks, isn't it?'

'I suspect so.'

'Christ…' John ran a hand through his hair. 'This is all my fault.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'Sherlock-'

'Your genetics are one matter. They are not responsible for the trauma.'

'But Mish doesn't-'

'Hamish has plenty of other difficulties thanks to his own parentage. If I'm not to blame myself for my problematic biology, then neither are you. You are a loving and devoted father with two wonderful, intelligent sons and if you don't stop spewing nonsense about things you couldn't have prevented in the first place, I'll bind and gag you regardless of whether or not the children are home.'

John blinked at him. 'Did you just make this conversation sexual?'

'Perhaps. Did it work?' He kissed John's cheek and wrapped an arm around him. John couldn't resist the call of Sherlock's shoulder. 'They'll come to you when they're ready. They like to try and sort it out for themselves first.'

'What if they can't sort it out?'

'Then you'll put on your captain voice and terrify some brat in year six.'

'I'm sure the headmaster will appreciate that.'

'Wouldn't be the first time he was displeased with someone in this house.'

'No, just the first time that person wasn't you.'

'If you're referring to the incident with the fire extinguisher-'

'The _what_? No, never mind, don't change the subject.'

'My point is,' he continued, lacing their fingers together, 'They'll come to you when they're ready. And if you try to push them along, they'll retreat and regroup. It's not time to worry yet.'

John took a long breath. His fingers tightened their grip. 'Alright. I- Yes, alright.' He rubbed at his face. 'I don't like any of this.'

'I know.'

'Especially not knowing he's still out there.'

Sherlock's stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. He willed it away. 'One thing at a time, I suppose.'

'That's a bloody big thing.'

'Well. Yes.'

He sighed. 'Let's sort out this wedding at least. Call your mum. I'll see about the marquee.'

'And the magpies.'

'No magpies.'

'Or lilac.'

'For god's- Shut up. It's fucking purple.'


	6. Chapter 6: Ohne

Will had never been to this part of town before. The buildings were shattered and unfamiliar, looming up at him out of the fog. He wound his way through the alleys shivering. Why was he out of the flat in only his pyjamas? Papa must not have seen him leave or he would've told him off for forgetting his coat. Now that he thought of it, it was strange Papa had let him leave unsupervised in the first place. But Hamish had been with him. His blood went cold and he started to run.

Where was Mish?

He had been here a moment ago; Will knew that much was true. They'd been together and now they weren't. Hamish was lost, missing, scared and cold and so far from home. How could that have happened without Will knowing? How could he betray Mish's trust again?

The alley came to a dead end and panic crept into his chest. He spun about, searching desperately for a door, stairs, ledge, anything to climb higher or move forward. The alley behind him was closing in, dark and foreboding, and something within him screamed that he couldn't go back the way he'd come. His pulse pounded in his ears, staccato and speeding. This wasn't happening again. He couldn't let it happen!

He started to climb, his fingertips scraping against the rough, unforgiving brick. It didn't matter, didn't matter at all, so long as he kept climbing. The building continued up for ages, almost endless against the dark sky. Will's pulse pounded in his ears, sick creeping up from his stomach and stinging his throat. He'd get there soon, he'd find the roof, Hamish must be on the roof. There was no other solution. The brick beneath his hands grew coarser with each passing moment, the rock interspersed with bits of steel and glass. His fingers were bleeding freely now, his grip slick and sticky. His had slipped, the brick grating the heel of his hand. He gasped and latched on with his toes. He felt them scrape too, and a disarming jolt shot through his ankles and shins. He did not look to see if his toenails were still attached.

On he climbed, and the roof still far away. He closed his eyes a moment and refused to consider the impossibility of the task. Hamish was up there. He felt it in his bones. If he could reach the top, he'd find Hamish and they could go home. He took a breath and opened his eyes once more. The roof seemed nearer, the climb more manageable. His fingers and toes screamed their dissent, but he shifted against the pain and clambered on.

Soon he reached the peak. A light rain began to fall, the sky blackened and grumbling. He looked around, whispering Hamish's name. Some ways ahead there was a structure, perhaps the entrance to a stairwell. He stumbled across the barren landscape, his heart beginning to slow in relief. Hamish must be behind there, hiding from the storm. It would be all right soon. They would be home soon.

A figure stepped out from the doorway as he drew nearer, far too big to be his brother or any child. A sleek suit and reptilian smile. An arm wrapped around Hamish's pyjama-clad chest.

Will's stomach dropped into his feet.

The man had a knife against Hamish's throat, the blade winking merrily in the sparse light. 'Give my regards to your father, noodle,' he sang. Then his hand flicked and Hamish's eyes widened. Red blossomed from his throat, red like Pentecost at Gran's church. A shout wrenched itself from Will's chest, his bleeding feet staggering across the frigid roof. And the man just smiled, and Hamish dropped to the hard, wet ground.

'_WILL!'_

His fist made contact with something firm and stubbly, his eyes flying open to his father's startled face. He gasped. 'Papa!'

'It's me, baby. It's just me. You're okay.'

'I'm sorry, Papa! God, I'm so sorry!'

'It's okay, baby, I promise. Everything's okay.'

'I lost him! I don't know how!'

'Lost who, bug?'

'Mish! He got Mish! I didn't-'

'Will?' His head spun and there was Mish: tousled and pale and terrified, but still alive.

'Oh, Jesus!' Mish yelped as Will yanked him over, his cry stifled immediately by his brother's heaving body. His thin arms wrapped around Will's neck after a moment, his lips pressed to Will's ear as he whispered secret comforts. Will squeezed him tighter and sobbed and shook.

John's heart was pounding, a familiar sense of dread creeping down from his scalp. He scrubbed his palm over his face and turned from the scene. His eyes landed on Sherlock, standing silently in the corner, the blue of his irises gone tempestuous with the past few minutes. Sherlock stepped to him and squeezed his hand, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

'Could you put the kettle on, John? Chamomile, if we have it. We'll be down in a minute.'

It felt wrong to leave, but he didn't know what else to do. He nodded and wandered aimlessly down the familiar stairs. His hands trembled as they went about the familiar task.

Hamish continued to murmur in Will's ear, his small hands rubbing circles in Will's back. Sherlock nearly smiled to see him copying a gesture John was so fond of making. Will was coughing away the last of his tears and wiping his face on his rumpled shirt. His eyes met Hamish's and some silent code passed between them before Will nodded and turned to face his father. His jaw was set, his chin lifted, as if daring Sherlock to comment on his recent descent into childish tears. Sherlock, who had once been twelve himself, knew better than that.

'The Jaffa cakes are in the cupboard if Papa hasn't hidden them again.' A hint of a grateful smile crossed Will's face and the boys padded downstairs ahead of their father.

He set them up at the table with cups of milk and a dozen biscuits between them, interrogating them on their opinions regarding Mrs Turner's new tenants from his spot at the head of the table. Hamish giggled as Sherlock hypothesised the true reasons they kept their lounge window shaded by house plants (the wife was a con-artist posing as a psychic and palm reader, and MI6 had been attempting to catch her in the act of duping pensioners out of their money for years; obviously the gaudy palms were hiding equipment necessary to scramble the bugs and limiting visibility into the room from the street), and even Will released a small, shy smile as Sherlock's descriptions grew more elaborate. The boys were licking the last of the biscuit crumbs from their fingers when John took his seat at the other end of the table and cleared his throat.

'No,' Will said.

John's brow furrowed. 'No?'

'I know what you're going to say and I won't do it.'

'I understand that the thought of talking to a stranger right now must be a little daunting-'

'Counselling didn't work for you and it's not going to work for me!'

'You don't know that, bug. Everyone's different and everyone's mind works in different ways. They have new treatments, new methods, new medications-'

Will huffed, his arms crossing across his chest. 'So, what? I'm supposed to go see some stranger so she can give me something to help me sleep? I don't _want _to sleep! Sleeping isn't doing me any good! I thought that was obvious!'

'Maybe the drugs will help the nightmares-'

'The only thing that will help them is having him dead!'

The room went quiet. Hamish paled, his eyes falling to the few crumbs on his plate. John's eyes were on Will for a long time before he spoke. 'That's a terrible thing to say.'

He sucked his teeth a moment. The resemblance to his father was uncanny. 'I never dream about Moran. Not once since it happened have I woken up because of him. It's always Moriarty.' His voice took on an edge it had never had before. 'What can we deduce from that?'

'You're frightening me, Will.'

'You know I'm right.'

'Violence isn't the answer.'

'Then what is?' He swallowed. 'What can we possibly do to be safe except kill him?' John's gaze had yet to shift, but Sherlock could tell he was weighing his options and coming up empty. His fist clenched imperceptibly, the old wound acting up as it always did in times of stress. The tip of his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. Hamish's eyes caught Sherlock's for a moment, pleading and frightened by the pending storm. He nodded in agreement.

'It's late. There's school tomorrow.' John closed his eyes, his head tilting slightly in warning. Sherlock continued in spite of it. 'Why don't we all camp down here tonight? Boys, go get settled. I'll be with you momentarily.' Hamish hurried to his parents' bedroom, pausing only long enough to tug his brother after him. Will's eyes were still on John, challenging and curious, until they reached the hall. John waited for the door to shut before his head fell into his hands.

'I don't know what to do.'

'Nor do I.' His hand fell to John's thigh. 'I'll tuck them in. Meet me on the sofa, alright?' He nodded. Sherlock squeezed his leg before heading for the cupboard to collect his secret weapon.

The boys were awkwardly huddled on the bed when he entered the room. Will had been crying again but did his best to hide it as he heard the door open.

'I'm in trouble, aren't I?'

Sherlock sat on the side of the bed, already setting to work filling a teaspoon with honey. 'Not tonight you aren't. We'll worry about tomorrow once it gets here.'

Hamish frowned as he watched the spoon pass from his father to Will. 'What are you doing?'

'Grand-mère always said that rose honey was the best cure for bad dreams. Here you are, darling.' Hamish took the second spoon carefully and slipped it into his mouth.

'And she was a physician, was she?'

'No, William, but she survived a host of twelve-year-old sceptics, including Mycroft. Tuck in.' Will eyed the spoon with suspicion before following instructions. Sherlock did his best not to smirk at the irritated bliss on his face and collected the spoons with a nod. 'Under the covers with you both.'

'Aren't you coming to bed?' Hamish asked, settling in the centre of a pillow.

'In a bit, darling. I need to collect Papa first.'

'I'm right, aren't I?' Will asked. 'About Moriarty.'

He gave Will's leg a squeeze. 'We'll talk tomorrow. Let's just get through tonight, then the morning, then school. That should be more than enough for us all.'

'You don't have school,' Hamish yawned.

'No, I have dissections, which will likely be far more informative.' He giggled, his feet kicking in his sleepiness. Sherlock smiled and kissed his forehead. He turned to Will, silently asking permission. Will nodded and he kissed his forehead as well. 'We'll be in soon. Sleep well.'

John had traded his cuppa for two fingers of scotch by the time he returned. His eyes were fixed on the empty grate, his glass rocking on his knee. Sherlock put away the honey and set the spoons in the sink before joining him. 'What did you give them?'

'A natural melatonin and liver glycogen booster. They'll be out in a wink.'

'Grand-mère's honey?'

'What else?'

John nodded and took a sip of his drink, sucking the excess from his lip. 'Do you have any bright ideas about this one?'

'A few. Four.'

'Well?'

'I think it best to wait until tomorrow.'

'I'm not a child, Sherlock.'

'No, you're certainly not. But you are exhausted, anxious, and angry, and I don't fancy exacerbating any of that.'

'_We _need to talk about it. Without the boys.'

'I quite agree. And we will. Tomorrow.'

He sighed heavily, eyes falling to the warm, amber liquid in front of him. 'When did you turn into the reasonable man in this relationship?'

Sherlock frowned as he thought about this. 'I don't know. I'm not fond of it.'

'That was a rhetorical question,' John chuckled.

'Was it? I'm never sure.' He reached out and took the glass from John's hand, sipping it himself before setting it on the coffee table. 'Come to bed.'

'I'm not tired.'

'No, but I am. You know I can't sleep without you.'

A rueful smile pulled at his lips. 'You're just saying that to get me to sleep.'

'Of course I am. You sound surprised.'

He looked over at Sherlock for the first time since he sat down. How strange it was to think that this was the same man he had once called a machine, who never thought twice about foregoing sleep and food and socialisation, who gambled his life with murderous cabbies and his reputation with blackmailers and found it a laugh. He thought of the carefully folded crayon drawings now tucked inside the man's wallet, the tins of sweets hiding in the pockets of his great, woollen coat, the matching tungsten rings he'd found buried under the blue argyle portion of his sock index, freshly polished and glimmering in their case. It didn't seem possible for so much to have changed about him.

But, then again, since when was it possible to identify a software designer by his tie or an aeroplane pilot by his left thumb?

He smiled a little and leaned in for a quick kiss. 'Alright, gorgeous. Let's to bed. I'll take the first watch.'


	7. Chapter 7: Schleppen

The next morning dawned bright and cold, blissfully unaware of the tension rising in 221B Baker Street. Sherlock found himself annoyed at the weather's lack of dramatic cohesion. The boys were bundled up against the chilly wind and on their way to school, having insisted that sensible persons aged twelve and seven were more than capable of walking a meagre six, well-populated blocks without the supervision of their paranoid father, thank you _very _much. It seemed the terror of the previous night had all but disappeared, no doubt beaten down by the morning's sunshine and Will's inbred stubbornness. John, however, was verging on a nervous collapse, and Sherlock had only just managed to bully him onto the sofa with a cup of strong tea and the most recent _Top Gear_. Sherlock had yet to decide if he were grateful it was John's day off from the clinic. He didn't fancy the idea of an exhausted, grumpy John prowling the surgery's halls and speaking sharply to patients, but he was equally displeased by the prospect of spending the day alone with such a character. The pending conversation loomed over the sitting room like a thundercloud. Sherlock gave up on maintaining the morning's strained quiet and plopped on the coffee table directly in front of John.

The man frowned and took a sip of tea. 'Hullo.'

'We're not sending him to Ella.'

'So I'm not watching _Top Gear _this morning?'

'I understand you're concerned, but it's not a good fit.'

'I never said we should send him to Ella.'

'Her specialties don't extend to juvenile treatment.'

'I know. She was _my _therapist, remember?'

'I'm open to the idea of counselling, should he agree to go, but we need to choose a therapist carefully. Someone credible, discrete.'

'It's a _therapist_, Sherlock. They _have _to be discrete.'

'Legally speaking, yes.'

'_Legally _speaking?' He waffled a moment. 'I don't think you understand how important patient confidentiality is to doctors. No therapist would _dream _of betraying a client's trust!'

'They don't all treat London's whoopsie detective's son.'

'Whoopsie?'

'I'd rather not go to Mycroft for his assistance, obviously, but our options are bound to be limited. I like to hope there aren't many young people experiencing anything similar to Will's diagnosis.'

'What the _hell _is a whoopsie?'

'Focus, John. Do I have to do all the work in this conversation?'

John set his mug on the coffee table before folding his arms and leaning into the sofa. 'Most conversations involve listening to the other person.'

'Do they? Odd. Available evidence is inconclusive on the matter.'

He rubbed his mouth, allowing his frustration to return to its usual simmer. 'It doesn't matter anyway if Will refuses to go.'

'He doesn't think it's worthwhile, especially considering your track record.'

'Therapy did help me. The second time.'

'Second time?'

'Yeah.'

'You went back?'

John stared at him. His voice lost its colour. 'You were dead.'

Ah. Yes. That. He found himself examining the singed corner of the rug, another victim of Hamish's recent fascination with magnesium. It puzzled him that John could still be so affected by his temporary demise after the many years that had since passed. Of course, John was a puzzle in his own right, one that Sherlock had yet to solve despite his constant attention. Yet he knew enough to realise his comment had been too much at a trying time. 'I'm sorry?' He attempted to keep the question out of his voice, but he wasn't quite successful. John smiled ruefully and shook his head. It was all right, then. He'd be forgiven.

'So no Ella, no Mycroft, and Will has to agree. Any other requirements?'

'I think those are the important ones.'

'And if Will doesn't agree?'

'Then we're in for a lot of long nights.'

'He's right, you know.'

Sherlock's stomach twisted unpleasantly. He sucked on his bottom lip. 'He doesn't understand.'

'Of course he understands. He's understood his whole life.'

'He's never killed anyone before.'

His lip twitched up, an odd glow igniting in his dark eyes. 'Runs in the family.'

'Well. There is some truth to that. On several levels.' He plucked at the fabric of his trousers, his mind revolving in search of a new straw to grasp. 'He doesn't realise that the effects are bound to continue on some level regardless of what happens to Moriarty. He's only considering that the danger will be neutralised and assuming that will resolve all of his issues.'

John nodded. 'You think that's what we should focus on? The future repercussions?'

'I think it's a poor excuse to push a boy into counselling.'

'What the fuck else are we supposed to do?' John's gaze had hardened, his mouth a thin, white line. 'Chase him down? Shoot the bastard in the street? Believe you me, I'd like nothing more than to slaughter that animal where he stands, but _you've _been reluctant at best!'

Sherlock swallowed, hot anger creeping up from his belly. 'And what would happen to you then?'

'It doesn't _matter_!'

'It _does _to _me_.' He swallowed down the tremor in his voice. 'Defending your child, your spouse, your home, from attack is one thing. There are ways around that particular scenario, avenues to pursue to ensure your freedom and safety. But hunting him down and disposing of him in cold blood would mean your certain incarceration, undoubtedly for the rest of your life. Not even Mycroft can save you from that. Too much time has elapsed to label Moriarty an imminent threat in the eyes of the law. You may survive for some time against the potential aggressions of other convicts, but that is a grey area at best. Perhaps more importantly, your children would be left without their father, and that is_ not_ something I will tolerate if I can do anything to avoid it.'

John was staring at him, a hint of a flush colouring his cheeks. 'They'd have you.'

His nostrils flared. 'And you expect me to remain functional? Loving? Capable of caring for anyone, let alone myself?'

He wet his lips. 'For them, yes. And for me.'

Sherlock swallowed. His head shook minutely. 'Don't make me test that theory.'

John's eyes searched his face, steady and concerned. There had been a time when fear never crossed Sherlock's face, when his voice never caught on the threat of tears. John remembered the first glance he had of it - a night so long ago in a room stinking of chlorine and ringing with threats - and it had shocked him then. That sudden glimpse of vulnerability had fallen like a stone into his stomach and changed his life without him realising it. In the time since, its appearance was rare: a warning of pending catastrophe he could not outwit. Monsters in the hollow. Madmen on the roof. John's own enveloping grief. And yet, the moments passed. They triumphed again. They moved on. But now? The last few months had been too much too fast, and now Sherlock's sharp features bore fear's burdens more often than not.

John hated that the sight was so familiar.

He swallowed, nodded, his spine straightening a little, and set his mug on the table beside Sherlock's thigh. 'It won't be necessary,' he murmured, hoping he sounded more convinced than he was. 'He won't be able to resist coming back. Not now that he's had a taste of it.'

'I suspect you're right.'

'We'll handle this as carefully as possible. Proper procedure.'

'If we can.'

'Right. Fine.' He ran a hand through his hair. 'That's fine.'

Sherlock sucked on his lip. 'I wish there were alternatives.'

'No, I know. But there aren't.'

'Neither one of us are very good about being patient.'

'But we have to be. And we will be.' He smiled tightly. 'I'll ask around, see if anyone knows a specialist. You see what you can do to convince Will.'

A small, unexpected laugh escaped him. 'Why do I have the impossible task?'

'Because you're the bloody genius.' Sherlock's eyes found his and, for a moment, the world seemed warm and right once more. John reached for him, his fingers curling in dark curls as he pulled their mouths together briefly. 'Enlist Molly. He can't say no to her.'

'No one can say no to Molly Hooper,' Sherlock murmured.

'You did.'

He huffed a laugh. 'That's different.' His lips twitched on a shy smile, his flush flirtatious rather than anxious. John had missed the sight, and his arms itched to bring Sherlock closer. 'I had you instead.'


	8. Chapter 8: Zu

Will's fork clanged against his plate as he stabbed a piece of cod, his brow knitted in determination. Sherlock frowned over at him. 'Has the fish offended you in some way?'

'No,' he snapped.

'Really? You seem intent on maiming it.'

''S fine.'

'Is it because of Jameson?' Will levelled a glare at Hamish that would make lesser men quail. But then, they hadn't spent seven years on the receiving end of such glares. Hamish simply shrugged.

'Who's Jameson?' John asked around a bite of sprouts. Will averted his eyes, bright pink spots rising in his cheeks. 'Will? Who's Jameson?'

It felt like treason, but Hamish knew his father was a dog with a bone when it came to information his children withheld. 'He's a boy at school.' Will kicked him under the table. 'In Will's year.'

'Oh? Not on friendly terms, then?'

'He's nobody. I don't know what Mish's on about.'

'And yet you assault your supper,' Sherlock murmured.

'I'm quitting footie.' It was John's turn to drop his silverware. 'That's all,' Will muttered.

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'I don't want to play anymore.'

'Why not? You love footie! Just this morning you were talking about us going to Tottenham on Saturday!'

''S different.'

'Did something happen at school today?'

'No.' His red ears told a different story.

'I don't understand. If nothing happened at school and you were fine this morning, did you come to this decision while you were chewing?'

Will carefully set down his fork and turned to Sherlock. 'May I be excused?'

'No, you may not!' John growled. 'What's going on, Will?'

'Nothing! I just don't want to play anymore!'

'So tell me why!'

'John-'

'_Sherlock_,' he snapped back, immediately returning his attention to their eldest son. 'This isn't like you, Will. You've been playing since you were able to walk!'

Sherlock and Hamish exchanged glances. The air around the old table rippled with rising tempers and they both smelled the brewing stalemate. Without intervention, they were doubtless in for days of slammed doors and subtle jabs. It was more than either could stomach.

'I've got school work,' suggested Hamish.

'Best get to it,' John clipped.

'Will said he'd help me with maths.'

'Ask your dad.'

'It's fractions…'

'Dad's a bloody genius; he can manage fractions.'

'He explains them too fast,' Hamish whined.

'Then make him explain them _again_.'

'Papa…'

'We do have the Bernhardt case to look over, John.'

'Are you two ganging up on me?'

'Certainly not. I need you to field Lestrade before he starts texting me.'

John's gaze was hard and unamused, but Sherlock remained benign, Hamish pleading. His voice took on a flinty tone as he turned back to Will. 'This conversation is not over.' Will wisely didn't reply. 'Go help your brother.'

'Yes, sir.' He hauled Hamish from his chair with more force than was necessary.

'Your plates?'

'Yes, sir.' Will shuffled to the sink with his silverware and half-full plate then bolted up the stairs. Hamish wasn't far behind him. He shut their door and turned to find his brother sitting in the corner of his bed, his knees tucked to his chest. 'You said you wouldn't tell Papa.'

'I'm sorry.' Will stared at him a moment. Hamish couldn't read his expression. His dark eyes closed and his head thunked against the wall. Hamish picked at a cuticle. 'What happened?'

'Nothing that hasn't happened before.'

Hamish nodded. He flopped on the bed beside his brother and chewed contemplatively at the dry skin. The peeling pain was oddly comforting.

'Mish?'

'What?'

Will sucked on his bottom lip. His hand wandered distracted through his short, dusky hair. 'Why do you think they care?' he said at last. 'Jameson and all of them. What does it matter to them what happened?'

'Sam too?'

He waved him away. 'That's different. Sam's your mate. She wants you to be okay. But Jameson's not my mate. He doesn't care how I feel.'

Hamish considered this but couldn't find an answer. 'I'm sorry.'

'For what?'

'That Jameson's playing footie now.'

Will sighed. His arms wrapped tighter around his knees. 'Me too.' Hamish tore a bit of skin from his thumb and sucked at the welling blood. Will rubbed his forehead against his arms. 'He always touches it.'

'What?'

'Every time Jameson pulls my trousers down, he touches my scar. He- He pokes at it. And if I tell him to stop, he laughs at me and pokes it harder.'

Hamish swallowed. Unfamiliar anger boiled up in his chest, nauseating him. 'No one helps you?'

He shook his head. 'They're scared of me, I think. Mish?'

'Yeah?'

'I- I keep seeing things. I keep seeing him in the corner of my eyes. If I'm in the corridor, I think he's there, too. I see his jacket or his hands or his shoes.'

Hamish watched him a moment. 'The police are watching the school.'

'I know. And it's never him when I look again. I used to just dream about him, but now…'

'Me too.'

Will sighed. He turned to their dark window, his eyes flicking from side to side, unseeing. 'D'you think I've gone mental?'

'No.'

'Maybe you're mental, too.'

He shrugged. 'That's what everyone says.'

'Yeah. It is.' White teeth nibbled at his lips, scabbed and shiny from repeated assaults. Hamish looked down at his hands to find them much the same: the nails bitten to the quick, the surrounding skin chaffed, bloodied by endless mastication. He couldn't remember collecting the habit, but he couldn't seem to stop. He wondered if he would outgrow it someday.

'I don't know what I'll do if he touches me again.'

Hamish closed his eyes, his anger twisting unpleasantly and turning into fear. It was a thought he hadn't had the courage to voice himself, but one that plagued him constantly. Papa refused mention the current state of Moriarty's whereabouts, but Dad had been more forthcoming in the past few weeks. He was still alive, still in hiding, but all potential leads had gone cold. Uncle Mycroft had added his own services to the tireless search, but to no avail. The man was a phantom, disappearing at a moment's notice and content to stay that way until he fancied to be found. None of this surprised Hamish nor his brother, but its predictability did nothing to calm their worries or lessen their nightmares.

His back seemed to itch at the thought, the healing scars protesting his acknowledgement of their existence. He wondered, not for the first time, why he had been the focus of Moriarty's physical attacks. Will had suffered his share of bruises and shallow cuts, true, but Hamish had been on the receiving end of the more brutal assaults. He knew the reason, of course. Moriarty was transparent enough. If it had been their parents in their places, the abuse would have been similar: physical for Dad, psychological for Papa. It was a simple equation and one Hamish did not relish understanding.

And yet, Moriarty had chosen to bind them together at the very end. He likely thought this showed he claimed ownership over them, but the twin scars seared into their flesh had only proved that they were united in their experiences, that there was another soul - perhaps the most important person in the world - who bore witness to the terrible events of that night in the old factory. No matter what happened in their lives or how separate they may be physically, the Watson-Holmes children would forever bear identical marks on secret bits of skin: the cartoonish apples of Moriarty's brand.

He wondered if he was mental after all, finding comfort in that.

He tugged at his brother's wrist until he rolled onto his side, his thin arm curling over Hamish. They lay quietly for a time. Will's hand drifted idly across Hamish's back. Hamish traced the letters on his brother's shirt, his own thoughts steeping to a muddy soup. Quiet quarrelling drifted up the stairwell, the words too muffled to interpret but their nature clear: Papa was furious and scared. It made for a troubling combination. Will's grip grew tauter as the debate continued. Hamish plucked at his collar.

'Maybe there are open slots at Gateway.'

He could almost hear Will's smile. 'Gateway is full of prigs.

Hamish nodded. 'We could nick some of Dad's disguises and sneak into St Marylebone.'

'That would only mean different locker room problems, mate.'

'I suppose.' He sighed. 'Well. I guess we'll just have to kill Jameson. Nothing for it.'

'Or have Uncle Greg arrest him.'

'Nah. Let's kill him. More permanent.'

His brother chuckled. 'Unless you're Dad.'

'Unless you're Dad,' Hamish agreed.

They soon drifted off to sleep, the long day and their father's fury having exhausted them.


	9. Chapter 9: Bestimmt

John awoke with the fight still fresh in his mind.

He could hardly remember an argument as harsh and bitter as the one that occurred the previous night. He and Sherlock disagreed constantly - about bedtimes and crime scenes and who should buy the bloody milk and everything, really - but these days they rarely escalated past one of them calling the other one an idiot and a later, conciliatory shag. The previous night's row had been different: insults that cut to the core and dangerous, quiet voices and no resolution to speak of. John had felt his hand spasm, his jaw tighten, blood singing through his veins. And so he left and walked until his legs ached and his feet grew frigid with the rain. And Sherlock panicked and wept and didn't smoke because he'd promised not to do, so he scratched at his wrists and made them bleed.

John came home some time later to find him like that, curled in the foetal position on the sofa and shaking. He thanked whatever power was watching that the boys were asleep and Mycroft hadn't intervened and nothing worse had happened. John sat beside him and apologised, attempting to explain the storm still raging in his head. His fingers slid through Sherlock's hair and he waited for a reply. It never came. Sherlock was docile and distant as John sat him on the toilet and cleaned the wounds, his tremor all but disappeared.

'John,' he murmured.

'Yes?'

'Maybe we shouldn't do this.'

'I know it stings, but we need to disinfect the wound-'

'Maybe we shouldn't get married.'

He stopped a moment, wondering if Sherlock was serious. 'We had one domestic and now you think we shouldn't get married?'

Sherlock was silent.

'You're ridiculous,' John whispered.

They didn't speak the rest of the night. Now, with weak spring light filtering in through the blinds and Sherlock's too-warm body mere inches from his side, he found himself wishing they had.

He glanced over, not at all surprised to find Sherlock's eyes open and fixed on him. They lay there for a time looking at each other, neither moving nor speaking. A chilly breeze fluttered in from the open window, carrying with it sounds of early traffic and birds and hung-over passers-by. Sherlock's hand gave the faintest twitch, his eyes shifting as he drank in every detail.

'You're not angry anymore,' he whispered. John shook his head. Sherlock wiggled closer, settling his head in the crook of John's neck. John felt his blood pressure drop and twisted to press a kiss to his hair. 'Why?'

'Things are always better in the morning.' Dark curls shifted as he spoke against them, tickling his nose. His hand found Sherlock's against his chest. He traced its geography with his thumb. The mechanics of the great brain were whirling so quickly he could almost hear them. 'What is it?'

Sherlock worried at his lip, an old habit he'd never managed to break. He stared at nothing as he tried to make sense of things. 'We're never going to agree on things.'

'Not everything, no.'

'I'm always going to make you angry.'

'You are. I'll make you angry, too.'

'Not really.' It wasn't a plea or contradiction, but a fact. He might've said that the gardener was responsible if a yellow ladder was found in the shed. John's hand tightened a little. 'I cause you a great deal of anxiety, John.'

He couldn't help but chuckle. 'You do, yeah.'

The room grew quiet. He heard a bicycle chime on the street below. 'Why would you want that in your life?'

John closed his eyes. Pain swirled up from his belly, vomit-hot and bitter to taste. His grip grew tense on Sherlock's hand. After all this time. After everything they'd been through. Would he _ever _understand? John didn't know if he'd ever find a satisfactory rationalisation for the man. What words could possibly suffice to explain that nothing – not madmen or death or dissected ravens in the good teapot – would push John away? How could he make Sherlock believe that it wasn't guilt or pride or co-dependency? Well, perhaps the last one, at least on certain days, but that was more a matter for Ella than a troubled genius at four in the morning after a bruising row and a sleepless night.

Perhaps it was the years of literary criticism concerning his blog, but John didn't think he was quite capable of forming the coherent sentences for this task.

He turned to the man beside him, all wide eyes and open, fearful face. John held his gaze a long moment. His hand slid into rowdy curls, easing their faces together. Sherlock didn't protest. Their mouths touched, delicately at first, gently, a question and an answer and a slow, lengthy oration on loyalty and connectivity and trust. Sherlock listened with lips and searching tongue, his body relaxing by inches, curling around John's as it had so many times before, a silent pleading: _please, yes, more, more_. John's hands began exploring, long strokes down Sherlock's side, up his neck, along the stripe of skin where shirt never quite met pants. Sherlock's fingers brushed along John's jaw, and somewhere in the debate between their bodies came a sweet entreaty: _Forgive me? _John's touch answered in kind: _Forgive _me_. _

Sherlock's breath hitched. A diminutive whimper slipped from his throat. John pulled him closer, rolling them until he could bury his face in Sherlock's throat, their bodies slotting together like lock and key.

There would be no more need for words.

They took their time divesting one another, their work interrupted by gentle kisses and soft inhalations. John slid down Sherlock's naked torso, his lips seeking out every mole and freckle and scar, teasing and blessing one before moving on to the next. Sherlock's fingers wandered over John's shoulders, neck, and head. He caressed the angry wound that had brought them together, whimpering softly at the familiar texture. John lapped at his hipbones and nuzzled his belly. It had grown softer over the past decade, but he'd never draw attention to this small victory. Instead he kissed it and nuzzled at the dark trail of hair. Sherlock grunted and wriggled out from beneath him. He turned awkwardly on the bed until they were both on their sides and buried his face in the juncture of hip and leg. John couldn't help but smile and do the same.

Release was a distant concept. There were plenty of times still when lust and passion took the lead – adrenaline-fueled, post-case nights full of groping in taxis and Mrs Hudson chiding them in the foyer came to mind – but these were not their focus now. They sought out the points where the most pleasure would be found, their lips and tongues and meandering fingers taking one another apart in oft-practised patterns. The room soon filled with sighs and murmured groans, the air heavy with their scents. It was all so simple, and yet John knew he'd never tire of this. Neither of them would.

Sherlock's body tightened; his mouth grew slack. John groaned in delight and increased the pressure of his tongue. At last salty heaviness flooded his mouth, tempered by the sweet citrus that monopolised his diet. John drank him down greedily, a brief moment of victory before Sherlock recovered and staged a spirited assault.

They somehow found their way beneath the duvet once more. Sherlock nestled in the cradle of John's shoulder, weary and relieved. John held him close and waited for his breathing to slow.

'Alright?'

'Obviously.' John barked a laugh and kissed his forehead. He felt a grin against his skin.

A soft knock sounded from the door, followed by Will's head peeking in. His nose crinkled a moment, his voice wry. 'You made up then?'

John's growl was silenced by Sherlock's low chuckle and he smiled in spite of himself. 'Cheeky.'

'I learned it from you.' He slipped inside and sat on the edge of the bed. His fingers plucked at the duvet.

Sherlock shifted onto his elbows. 'What is it, darling?'

He chewed on his lip. 'I- I changed my mind.' He expected to be pressed. No questions came. 'I think I ought to go t' counselling.' From beneath his fringe he saw Dad's eyes widen and shift to Papa. Papa just nodded.

'Are you sure?' he asked.

Will shrugged, pointedly tracing the seam of the duvet. 'I don't think I've much choice.'

'You have every choice.'

'No. I don't.' He shrugged again and smiled crookedly. 'We don't need more madness 'round here.'

John pulled him in and hugged him, ignoring the whine of preteen protest. He kissed Will's cheek and squeezed him once more. 'Thank you.'

''S'alright.'

'I mean it.'

He rolled his eyes. 'Cor, Papa, you're always so mushy after a snog.'

'You'll understand that someday.'

His nose crinkled in disgust. 'I'll pass.'

John chuckled and let him go. 'I'll make some calls this morning.'

'It's Saturday…'

'They work on Saturday; trust me. We'll get it sorted soon.'

'Okay.'

'Okay.' He clasped a pyjama-clad knee. 'Go wake your brother. I'll talk your father into making waffles.'

'I'm right here,' he rumbled.

'Of course you are. And you're making waffles.'

'I've no choice in the matter?'

Will grinned. 'Not once Mish wakes up.'

'Damn.' He winked at the boy before patting John's leg. 'Alright. Let's begin the day.'


	10. Chapter 10: Stark

It was almost summer and Hamish could hardly wait for the season to change. The winter had been too long; he felt cramped and Will felt itchy. School was boring, the city heavy. Will had muddled through a month of biweekly counselling sessions. His nightmares had become a nightly affair, each more frightening than the last. They had both taken to sleeping in the lounge; Papa's knee was too tetchy to run up the stairs that often. Their fathers had spent a great deal of time in long, whispered conversations with Uncle Mycroft. Perhaps they were discussing the Do, now only a few months away. Perhaps it was something darker. Regardless, it made Hamish suspicious and Dad furious. They needed a break: the tree house in Gloucestershire and closeness and time with Uncle Sherr. Uncle Sherr. Especially him. The only certain remedy to Papa's worry and Dad's constant frown. All stories and warmth and easy sturdiness. A shy balloon of hope inflated in his chest. Uncle Sherr would make things easier. He would make them all right. Hamish stepped toward his and Will's usual afterschool meeting place and his optimism dissipated.

He had grown so used to Will's 'episodes' (as his counsellor delicately referred to them) that he could recognise them in an instant. Will was having one now; even from across the schoolyard he could spot the signs. He sat curled tight, his back pressing into the brick wall behind his classroom, white-knuckled and trembling. And there, to Hamish's horror, was Harley Jameson, barrelling across the patchy garden with a sneer on his lips, his loyal gang in tow.

Hamish ran, tripping, across the grass, Jameson's jeering shout scratching at his ears.

'Woofter Watson! You cryin' again?'

Will's voice then, soft, broken, terrified. 'No-'

'Must be the fifth time today, eh, lads? You break a nail or summat?'

'Please, Jameson, don't-'

'Or what? You'll cry for your camp daddy? Make him come over and try'n' roger me?' His attendants guffawed, nasal and ear splitting.

'Leave him alone!' Jameson spun around, his mean, beady eyes narrowing with malice and glee.

'Oh look, poof! Your bummer brother's comin' to save you!' Will's gaze found him then, pleading. It would have been better if they'd been angry. 'You comin' to kiss him better?'

His chest ached. Will lay in a heap, terrified and trying desperately not to cry. Jameson's broad mouth stretched in a brutish grin, his body looming over Will. Hot anger billowed up in Hamish, a kind of fury that had grown familiar in the past few months. It didn't matter that Jameson was the biggest and meanest boy at school, that he had a gang of four including Tommy the Tank and Mad Miggs. It didn't matter that Hamish was especially small for his age and at least a stone underweight. 'Jameson,' he said, voice low and cool. Will looked up, his eyes expectant. His tone had been too similar to Papa's right before a row. 'I said leave him alone.'

'Or what?' he sneered. 'You goin' to stop me, midge?' He shoved Hamish down, closer to his brother. Will's eyes flashed a warning. 'Go on and kiss him better, bummer. Only kiss his barmy arse will ever get!'

In the years to come, Hamish wouldn't be able to say how it had happened. One minute he was staring into Jameson's fat, evil face, contemplating the likelihood of a surviving strain of _Homo __neanderthalensis_ thriving and mating in central London. Then he blinked, and Jameson was on his knees, howling like an animal as blood poured from his nose. His gang circled him in shock. Logistically speaking, there was only one viable candidate for his assailant, and the blood splattered artfully across Hamish's cuff spoke volumes. However, Hamish had no recollection of it happening at all. He stood there, dumbfounded, his sluggish mind wobbling to determine the cause of this carnage. But Will was on his feet, yanking Hamish after him as he raced across the schoolyard. He didn't stop for air until they were halfway to Baker Street.

'Mish!' He was gasping, his hands on his knees. Hamish worried for his asthma and started searching his pockets for a spare inhalator. Will grabbed his wandering hand. 'Mish, that was- _Mish_!'

He abandoned his search and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. 'I- I don't- What just happened?'

'Bloody _brilliant _just happened! Did Papa teach you that?'

'No! Of course not!'

'I wish he had! Then he could've taught _me_.'

Hamish's heart thrashed against his chest. His rump found the ground for fear of falling. 'He's going to kill me. I'm dead. He'll massacre me on Monday.'

'No, he won't. He'll be too scared. Was it Uncle Greg? He always teaches you the dead useful stuff.'

'He'll _kill me_, Will!'

Will touched his cheeks, his eyes and grin almost manic. Hamish couldn't help but admit that he was glad to see his smile, even like this. 'Then you'll die a hero's death. And everyone will know it.' He patted him. 'Let's get home. Dad'll fret.'

They jogged the remaining distance to Baker Street, and Hamish's pulse finally slowed. Will unlocked the door and they dashed up the stairs, sharing a dazed grin as they opened the door. It immediately fell as their father turned to them.

'William.'

He swallowed. 'Dad.'

He stepped to the desk. He set his mobile beside the open laptop. It gleamed like a knife in the afternoon sun that snuck between the curtains.

'The school just rang me.'

Will's fingers twitched. He knew Dad saw them move. 'Interesting.'

'They said you were fighting.'

Will licked his lips. 'Not accurate.'

Bright eyes narrowed. They were silver today. They were always silver at times like this. 'Explain.'

His stomach twisted, plummeted. He waffled for an explanation, unable to determine if Dad was angry or pleased; his poker face was legendary. He took a breath, but Hamish stepped forward. He looked so small in his too-big jumper. Dad towered over him even from halfway across the room. 'It was me, actually.' His voice didn't waver. For the thousandth time since their return from hospital, Will decided his brother was the bravest person alive.

Their father's eyes flicked between the two of them, assessing, examining, reading the last half hour like the daily obituaries. Hamish forced his chin up, unashamed, meeting his father's gaze when it returned to him. He nodded at last, walking past as he headed to the kitchen. His large hand gently tousled Hamish's curls as he passed.

'Well done, you,' he growled.

Will nearly burst with joy.

By the time John arrived home from surgery, the afternoon's drama was all but forgotten. The boys sat at the table, quietly completing their schoolwork. Sherlock stood at the stove, putting the finishing touches on their supper. It was a tranquil sight, outwardly comforting, beautifully domestic. John felt his hackles rise.

'…What's going on?' The boys looked up in tandem, careful to not glance at each other. Sherlock turned with a bemused smile and raised eyebrows. John rolled his eyes. 'Right. I don't want to know. What's on tonight?'

'Curry.'

'Brilliant. I'm starved.'

St Mary's called a week later when they heard no report of Hamish Watson-Holmes's parents making a plan for their son's reprimand. It was their poor luck that the parent they contacted was John Watson, spending a rare afternoon home alone. After calmly listening to an account of the prior week's malfeasance and forming a few logical and – as luck would have it – accurate theories as to the causes of the event in question, he informed the headmistress that if the Jamesons wished to pursue the matter further, they had his address and tea was at half four. Something in his tone, however, suggested that it might be best to put the matter to rest entirely. She made a note in her file that the issue was resolved. She also drew out a cigarette from the pack she forgot to banish from her handbag and headed for the staff lot. After a call like that, she thought she deserved it.


	11. Chapter 11: Langsam

The Do would, of course, be hosted by the Holmes estate. It wasn't quite what John had intended when they'd started planning, but Hamish had suggested it and Cate had found that obvious, and only fools and madmen argued with Mummy Holmes. The jury was still out on which group held claim to her sons. John, once it had all been decided, was more than happy to bow to her expertise. It seemed she knew every florist in the county, every caterer and dressmaker and milliner… He wasn't sure how much need they'd have for any of these services, mind, but Cate was ecstatic. Hamish, naturally, took the reins when it came to entertaining her, spending countless tea times at the kitchen table, jotting down notes as she made calls and rambled. Will and his grandfather explored the back garden, taking care of menial tasks that were deemed necessary for hosting a proper social event. John offered opinions when necessary, and Sherlock hid. It was best for everyone.

Harry would officiate. Her sobriety had resulted in a newfound spirituality and subsequent clerical appointment through the powers of the internet, and it only seemed fair she be given the post. She _had _been the first family member they'd introduced to their secret union. (_How long ago was that now? It felt like a lifetime at least and it was: long before the roof and Mary and their boys…_) She was certainly a better option than Mycroft, who viewed the whole event with an air of bemused pomposity. It seemed his own clandestine love had done little to quell his distaste for sentimentality, although Sherlock did enjoy the way Anthea tended to pinch him when he said something particularly indecorous.

He had known that a wedding, particularly one with his mother at the helm, would be a grand affair. He'd spent enough time folding serviettes and drafting table settings to make him an expert in the field of connubial machinations. However, he'd navigated the process of John's first wedding with a sort of detached horror and fascination. The sooner everything could be prepared, organised, and executed, the sooner the whole nightmare could be over and he could return to his newfound half-life to sulk in peace. He'd kept himself occupied in the hope of quelling the constant scream resounding in his skull. Now that he was at the centre of the operation, he felt queasy. There were too many banal decisions that he was required to approve, too many names to juggle, too many cards to sign. He didn't care about the gift list or menu or alstroemerias (although that particular bloom had become a fixation for both his mother and, inexplicably, John). In fact, the nearer they came to the day in question, the more he desired to flee with his betrothed to the nearest registrar and sign the bloody papers without interference from outside, maternal sources.

It wouldn't do, of course. John would never have it. How he loathed him for it.

So the spring slipped away quietly with every weekend spent in Gloucestershire. His father and Will tended to the gardens and prepared them for what Cate insisted would be their finest hour. Sherlock dutifully followed John to cake samplings and tailors and long, dull, bloody pointless discussions about bloody serviettes and bloody telegrams and he'd _nod _and _smile _and fume inside. And once they returned to Baker Street, he tinkered with various serums in the hope of drugging John enough to agree to throw in the towel and elope.

His efforts so far had proved unsuccessful, although he had been able to uncover John's acute allergy to certain West African beetles.

Sherlock found himself spending more and more time in the flat. A veritable drought had swept the criminal minds of London and Lestrade hadn't a single fresh case to offer. Sherlock had cleaned up three boxes of cold cases in a week and a half before declaring the entire storage room of the Met to be a black hole for interest and intelligence and had refused any other files that might be scrounged from its bowels. His ever-present itch of boredom had led to half-cocked experiments and an incinerated tumble dryer before Hamish somehow got him hooked on urban beekeeping. His campaign to install an apiary on the roof was gaining momentum, but Mrs Hudson had yet to relent.

It was around this time that he discovered he wasn't the only hermit in 221B Baker Street.

Will had left the footie team as he'd threatened to do. Prior to his tenure there, he'd hardly been home, instead gallivanting off to some mate's house or heading to the cinema or tormenting the pedestrians in the park with his brother. But now he seemed to take no delight in his earlier ventures. As the days grew warmer, he spent those afternoons not occupied by his counsellor in his room. He made little noise and rarely emerged for anything except sustenance and urinary relief. Hamish would not join him, but he often gave the entrance to the stairs furtive glances from his place on the sofa. Sherlock felt a muttered, paternal niggling in the back of his head. Something was wrong, and he intended to find the source of the problem and squash it.

He met the boys at school on their last day of term and walked with them to Regent's Park and its best ice cream vendor. Will was reticent, but Hamish bubbled over with observations of the day and plans for the coming months. They settled on a bench and the boy went off to toy with the wildlife nesting near the pond. Sherlock watched him with an odd smile.

'How does he do it?' He started from his reverie, turning to his eldest son. Will, too, was watching his brother, chewing on his lip. 'I don't understand.'

'Elucidate.'

Will shook his head. 'We went through the same thing. I know they're cruel to him at school. Why am I falling apart and he's…playing with ducks?'

Sherlock considered this. It was true that everyone had been shocked by Hamish's resilience. He had his share of nightmares, true, and the scarring on his back would never heal completely. But overall, he had recovered, his intrinsic Hamish-ness intact, blossoming even. 'This may be a better question for Papa.' Will sighed, defeated. 'I can hazard a guess.'

'You never guess.'

Sherlock smirked. 'He has a distinct advantage over you.'

'Yeah,' Will huffed. 'No genetic predisposition.'

'That's not what I mean at all.' Will frowned at him. 'He was caring for you, darling. He was protecting you. If he took your place, he'd be hurt and you'd be saved. He was trying to make use of what he perceives to be his _own_ genetic predisposition.'

'And what's that?'

'The Holmes men don't feel. At least that's what he thought. His uncle, the Ice Man, may have led him astray on that. It didn't work, of course.'

'What do you mean? He's fine.'

'No, he isn't. Not really.'

Will swallowed. 'You're scaring me, Dad. Quit talking riddles.'

'Darling.' He rolled his eyes, sighing a little. 'He looks sad when he thinks you can't see him.' Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say. Will's cheeks coloured to the tips of his ears. He turned angrily away. Sherlock floundered for words, wanting to curse with frustration at upsetting the boy.

'Why doesn't he trust me?'

'He does; of course he does. But-' He wished John weren't at surgery, that he could fix this mess and explain things to Will, explain things to both of them. 'He's still protecting you. He didn't realise how much seeing his hurt would hurt you. So he has to keep pretending he's well so you can concentrate on getting better yourself.'

'That isn't fair.'

'Well, no, perhaps it isn't.'

He fumed a moment, eyes shifting from one shoe to the other. 'You said you were guessing. What makes you think any of this is true?'

Now it was Sherlock's turn to flush. He wished he could lie. 'Because it's what I would do.' Will's eyes were hard, his brow furrowed. Sherlock shrugged. 'What's a Holmes without his Watson?'

There was a scuffle in the grass a few feet away. They both turned to see Hamish brushing off his trousers. He tilted his head to one side. 'You're not talking about me, are you? You both look right serious.'

'I thought you were chasing ducks,' Will said, a hair too loud.

'I chased them too well; they're gone. What is it?'

'Nothing, Mish.'

He sighed. 'Yeah. It was me.' He brightened immediately and took Will's hand. 'Come on! There's a dead fish washed up on the bank. You won't believe the maggots!'

'Ugh! Mish! That's disgusting!' Sherlock couldn't help but notice that Will was easily dragged by a child half his size. 'Da-ad! Make him stop!'

Sherlock forced himself up, following with a practised nonchalance he both hated and loved. 'And what species of maggots are they, Hamish? You know you're not allowed to force your brother to look at carrion without proper deductions.'

'Calliphoridae, I think! I saw some adults nearby the other week.'

'Oh, good,' Will whinged. 'That makes it all the better.' Sherlock stole a glance at him and noticed he was smiling, his hand clasping Hamish's tightly.


	12. Chapter 12: Wieder

He remembered thinking in a stupid, damning way that everything seemed to be going swimmingly. The boys were calmer without the weight of schoolyard taunts on their shoulders. They had at last finished wedding planning – far ahead of schedule thanks to Cate's dedication and skill. Cases were coming in again, keeping Sherlock unusually content and sparing Mrs Hudson's walls further abuse. Life had settled into a happy routine: case, surgery, rest, play. John was breathing again.

He should have known better. Peace never lasted in their house.

It was hard for him to say when it all started to go wrong; the shift was subtle enough. A permanent crease formed in Sherlock's forehead. He started to _fidget_. Casual inquires into his disposition received curt dismissals. Not that this was unusual; John had simply grown unaccustomed to it after months of quiet and caring and recovery. He dismissed this behaviour as Sherlock falling into one of His Moods.

Then one morning over beans and toast, the pieces fell together in a single, off-hand comment.

'Sherr hasn't written in some time,' he said.

John prided himself on his ability to speak Sherlockian. After two decades of close study, he doubted if anyone could best him in the battle for linguistic supremacy. This simple phrase gave him everything he needed. The incurable frown, the short temper, the lack of interaction… Sherlock was _scared_. Sherrinford had disappeared before – it seemed a Holmes Family tradition – but never for this long. His lack of communication could only mean that he _couldn't _reach out to his youngest brother. And that almost certainly meant danger.

Worry made Sherlock impossible to live with. He spent more and more time sulking on the sofa. He seldom shed his dressing gown and whinged like a toddler when John confiscated it for a round through the wash. His mood was infectious: Will withdrew once more, barricading himself in his room and refusing to go to counselling. Hamish drew closer to John, sensing that the lesser lunatics must form an alliance to increase their chances of survival.

Things could only get worse, and they soon did. A week or two after Sherlock's nonchalant revelation, a plain, brown envelope found its way into Baker Street. John glared at it from his chair and waited for Sherlock to arrive from the morgue. These things are best faced together.

The flat was dark when he at last returned. John was nursing a cuppa and unwilling to move close enough to the envelope to switch on the lamp. He knew he'd rip it open if he did, scream at the contents and go off hunting whoever was responsible. Long fingers tugged the lamp's chain and Sherlock stared at him in the golden light for a long moment before his gaze shifted to the side table. It remained there for some time.

Of course the handwriting was familiar. Of course the paper was the same. Poisoned candies and unmoving children danced through his head. It was intended to foster déjà vu. As much as its sender despised being obvious, he was overly fond of methods certain to jog Sherlock's memory. There was no doubt what the envelope contained. His eyes met John's. He picked up the envelope and eased it open. Scotland Yard would give him hell for it later, but that didn't matter now. He slid the contents into his hand.

A photograph of a woman's face. Everything below the septum obscured. Her eyes bright and angry, dangerous.

A white handkerchief. Pressed often. Flecked with something visceral and brown. On one corner, a simple monogram in green thread, hand stitched, skilled workmanship: GSSH.

The bottom dropped from his stomach.

He looked to John once more and saw only fury and understanding in his stormy eyes. Without a word, John stood and removed his mobile, leading Sherlock to the sofa as he dialled. Sherlock heard his brother's voice crackle weakly from the speaker.

'He's back.' How could John sound so calm at a time like this? 'We got a package. He has Elaina and Sherrinford.'

Lestrade was at last in conference with MI5 and Interpol, his voice hoarse from shouting. Mycroft sat silently and passed him notes on Sherrinford's last known locations and favourite hideouts. Moriarty had been hunted for months with nothing in the way of progress, which surprised no one in the flat. Donovan was leading the hunt for known associates. It had so far resulted in enough dead bodies that Greg had almost complained before a glance from Molly reminded him of the circumstances. Mrs Hudson ferried endless cups of tea across the flat and had recently disappeared to throw something in the way of supper together. Terror and crisis were no excuse to skip a hot meal.

The boys sat on the sofa on either side of Molly. One arm was wrapped around Will, curled prone and staring blindly. The other hand rested on Hamish's trainer. Hamish scribbled furiously in a notebook, names of officers and suspects and far-off places pouring from his pencil. No detail was too small. John watched him longingly. If only he could find something as useful to do. Instead he sat beside Sherlock, back aching from the unforgiving dining chair, eyes flicking from the calamity in the sitting room to his silent, unmoving fiancé.

Sherlock hadn't spoken since he'd gotten home. He was off in his mind palace, that much was certain. His fingers rested against his lips, hands pressed together prayer-like and elbows on the table. The photograph and handkerchief were laid out on the wood before him, the only evidence of a blatant crime. John hoped he was somewhere investigating the dirt on the handkerchief against his endless database, or perhaps finding some esoteric light bulb used to illuminate Elaina's face. He didn't want to consider the alternative. He couldn't handle the thought of Sherlock panicking at a time like this. It was too reminiscent of Tchaikovsky and tinny air and sickly comic apples burned into his children's flesh. John shook the thought away before the bile finished climbing up his throat and he made a bigger scene of the current sitting room farce. No, Sherlock was working. Sherlock was picking apart the facts, what few there were. There were no alternatives.

Greg's voice cut through his thoughts, its tone too decisive to be ignored by anyone in the room. 'Alright. Thank you, sir. I'll keep you informed as well.' He rang off and ran a hand through his already rumpled hair. 'They're assembling a task force, finally. Interpol is reaching out to whatever locals they can reach. Honestly, if I hadn't said "Holmes", I don't think we would've gotten anywhere.'

'The old family still has some hold,' Mycroft muttered. He was paler than usual, the copper of his hair oddly apparent without the colour in his cheeks. 'I've of course made my own calls, but I think it best we make as much of a show of protocol as possible.'

'The charges will stick better that way, yeah.'

'The charges are of no concern to me.' His nostrils flared. 'We have incarcerated Moriarty before. It was deemed ineffective.'

'So was death.' John nearly jumped at the voice next to him. It was deeper than usual, hoarse from lack of use. Relief may have flickered across Mycroft's face, but it was tamped in the blink of an eye. Sherlock would see it, of course. Sherlock saw everything when it came to Mycroft. His colourless eyes were fixed on his brother, a strange moment passing between them as it so often did. John wondered if Hamish might understand their silent vernacular. Perhaps he should ask him later. He closed his eyes and forced his rambling thoughts to quiet. 'There are no simple answers to this problem, Mycroft; nor is this the most important matter we are currently facing.'

'You can't believe he will release Sherrinford alive.'

'Of course he will. It's no fun to kill him; he's proved that time and time again.' John saw Will wince in his periphery.

'Sherlock…' he murmured.

'He's right, Papa,' Hamish interrupted. The party turned to hear him. Hamish had that effect on people. 'There's no point in pretending different. If either of us have an episode, it will be from losing Uncle Sherr, not from hearing what we already know.'

'Yeah,' Will agreed, his colour returning a little. 'I'm all right, Papa. Really.'

'The _point _is,' Mycroft continued, 'we will proceed through the proper channels as a matter of respect so long as it is in our best interests to do so. However, I doubt I'm alone in saying that I am more than willing to take whatever action is necessary to return my brother and his partner to safety.'

'Agreed,' Greg said. He nodded as if he hadn't intended to vocalise the thought but meant it nonetheless. 'Right. Sherrinford and Elaina come first and we'll hang the book if we have to, make no mistake. Everyone's on board with that.'

'Of course we are.' Greg couldn't help but smile at Molly. 'We're a family. Yes, even you, Mycroft. And he's not going to ruin that again.'

'Yes, this is all very moving.' The acidity had crept back into Sherlock's voice. John could read anxiety in his shoulders and frustration in his too-still hands. 'Could we stop sitting around congratulating ourselves and _do _something?'

'And what do you suggest we do, brother mine? Have you gleaned their location from a bit of fluff on his handkerchief?' Sherlock huffed. It was a dangerous sound. 'We are at the mercy of our contemporaries. There are no leads.'

'There are _always _leads.'

'Then enlighten us as to what they are.'

He was up like a shot, stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket and at the coat hooks before anyone could react. 'This is intolerable.' The Belstaff was around him and he was out the door, his feet heavy as he all-but ran down the stairs and out to the street.

The room slowly turned to John, even Mycroft at a loss to this outburst. John sighed, scrubbing his face before he, too, stood. 'He'll be at the lab. It's the closest to home he can get right now.'

'But this is home.'

'It is, Will. And it will be again. But right now, it doesn't have the answers he wants.'

'Nor does anything, I'm afraid,' Mycroft drawled. 'He never did handle failure well.'

'Yeah, well, he hasn't failed,' John snapped. 'Not yet, anyway, and I won't hear different.' He stepped to retrieve his own jacket. 'Molly, Greg, do you mind keeping an eye on the boys for a bit?'

'Not at all,' she said. 'Gents, you don't mind an afternoon with us, do you?' They didn't respond. Will plucked at his jeans, but Hamish's eyes were on his father. They said far more than his words ever could.

'We'll get him back,' John promised. 'We haven't lost him yet and I don't mean to.' Hamish nodded. John's hand found his hair: thick, unruly, so much like the man he loved. 'Right. I'll be back. I promise.' He headed for the street, swearing under his breath at the unseasonable wind. It was just like Sherlock to run off in a storm. His pace quickened.


	13. Chapter 13: Leidenschaft

He hadn't stopped cursing since he'd left the flat: at the cold, the traffic, the lack of cabs, Sherlock's damnably long legs, his penchant for disappearing, the students at Bart's whose IQs mysteriously dropped whenever a stranger approached, stripping them of any understanding of verbal cues or the English language or their ability to _move the fuck aside_\- He took a deep breath as he neared the morgue. It wouldn't do to barge in, shouting and ranting. Sherlock was already defensive and ready for a fight. John didn't want to grant him the satisfaction of moral superiority. They were on the same side after all. They both wanted Sherrinford home safe and Moriarty in the ground. They both knew Sherlock wasn't being intentionally difficult. The great brain hid an even greater heart, but he'd never quite figured out what to do with it.

John was getting sentimental in his old age. He sighed and scrubbed his face before pushing open the door.

'You loitered for a full three minutes. I must be in for it.'

His eyes were on the microscope, but John knew his mind wasn't. For one thing, his foot was bouncing on the metal rung of the stool. For another, the microscope was missing a slide. 'You frightened Hamish.' His voice was measured, calm, the voice he'd perfected talking new recruits through emergency amputations and enemy fire.

'No, I didn't. He's too logical.'

'Alright, no. But you did frighten Will.'

The leg stilled. 'Ah.' His cheeks paled. 'Is he alright?'

John stepped to the worktop, his hands finding broad shoulders, thumbs rubbing the wool. 'He wants you to come home.'

Sherlock pressed into his touch, at last looking away from the microscope. 'I can't, John.'

'I know, love. He knows, too.'

'Mycroft's being terribly smug.'

'He isn't. He's worried; he just doesn't know how to express it without being-'

'A complete arse?'

'I'll say yes because you'll never hear different.' His arm slid over Sherlock's chest. 'He wants them to be safe. You know that.'

'Pardon me for not believing that based on some thirty years of empirical data-'

'I know, love.' His nose found its way to the hair at Sherlock's nape, pressing in just enough to smell sweat and stress and expensive shampoo. 'You've every right to question his intentions, but he is trying.' Sherlock huffed, fiddling with the box of slides. _Enough family counselling for today, then, _John mused as he pulled away. He ran his fingers through dark curls, frizzy and tangled with the rain. That usually did it, a good pet. It had tamed his mad genius plenty of times, and it seemed to be working now. His neck was loosening, his fingers slowing their mad foxtrot with the slides. He followed the shifting tempo, the code Sherlock had taught him floating through his mind. _Allegro… Andante… Adagio…_ He could hear Sherlock's gears turning now and waited for him to speak.

'I can't determine what his purpose was.'

John blinked. He hadn't expected that. 'Sorry, I think you had the first half of that conversation without me. Whose purpose?'

'Moriarty's.' The eye-roll was heavy in his speech. 'Kidnapping our children was logical enough: he's finding pressure points much like Magnussen. He wanted to lure me to him and fast, and there wasn't a faster way to accomplish that. Very efficient of him, very tidy. He's always so clean in his pursuits. It had the bonus of psychological damage, to all of us, which I'm sure he enjoyed. He never expected Lestrade to kill Moran, but he never bothered to study Lestrade. Obvious, really. He's as much of a soldier as you, in his own way. He could have predicted it would happen if he hadn't been so swept up in playing with us.'

He hated that he was smiling. It was a terrible monologue to be smiling at, and he was sure Ella would have words with him about it if he could be arsed to see Ella anytime soon. But Sherlock was being so…_Sherlock_. For the first time all day, he was seeing the man he knew, the man he'd met in this very room a lifetime ago: cold, offensive, calculating, and utterly, breathlessly _amazing_.

'Elaina and Sherr, on the other hand, just seem tedious. He's played the kidnapping card, and yet here we are again. It just seems cruel, like a bully who won't stop taking another child's money. He's no doubt hired some new pack of ne'er-do-wells; he wouldn't have succeeded in subduing and moving two grown adults on his own, let alone adults with the skills and intelligence they possess. As stated before, he's sanitary. He doesn't like to get his own hands dirty when there's no glamour attached to it. Moran was his last true ally. These men, whoever they are, are merely lackeys and he'll dispose of them once they're no longer useful. One job and they'll be done. What's the point? He's more talented than this.'

John pursed his lips. 'He's desperate? He's angry? If the work is so sloppy, maybe he just wants revenge.'

'Then why did he _wait?_' Sherlock turned to him, eyes bright, brow furrowed. 'It's been _months_. If he wanted to retaliate, he would have moved faster.'

'He waited a decade to attack the boys.'

'Eleven years.' He shook his head, his fingers tapping again. 'That's long enough to forget, to feel safe. We weren't there yet. This is…random.'

'Maybe that's it, then. He saw an opportunity and took it. They must have been back in the country and he jumped at the opportunity.'

'If they'd been in the country, he would have contacted me.'

'Not if they'd only just arrived. Not if they were still crossing over and were snatched along the way. When did you speak with him last?'

He chewed his lip, flicking through his files. 'When we left hospital. We got home and I sent a postcard to his last known location. It may have taken some time for him to receive it.'

'And if Moriarty intercepted it along the way…'

Sherlock shoved away from the worktop, his curse no less terrifying for its foreignness. John thought it might be Romanian. He yanked at his hair as he paced, eyes wild, breath coming fast.

'Sherl- Love. Don't do this to yourself.'

'Bloody _stupid_! For fuck's sake-'

'Don't, Sherlock. You were afraid. You needed your brother.'

'And now he's trapped with a _lunatic _because of me!'

'You didn't know-'

'_I should have!_'

'No. Sherly-' He somehow managed to catch him by the wrists, tugging at them until his frenzied eyes met his face. 'It wasn't our fault we went to the theatre that night. It wasn't your fault you needed comfort after we almost lost our boys and you almost died. You are _human_, Sherlock. Right? And I _know _Sherr would be _furious _at you if he heard you say these things.'

'Sentiment.'

'You're bloody right it is.' He palmed Sherlock's cheek, refusing to let him look away. 'You aren't the monster in this, Sherlock Holmes. You're a great man. You're a _good _man. Moriarty is using that against you because _that's _what monsters do. But we're going to beat him, once and for all. Alright?'

Sherlock searched his eyes for a moment, their colour changing in the harsh light. John had long ago learned not to shy away. At last he nodded, his voice a gentle growl. 'Alright, John. We'll slay the dragon. But we have to find them first.'

'Then find him. Right?' It took a moment for him to nod, his mind already assembling the puzzle pieces, what few they had. John squeezed his wrist and stepped away. 'I'll see about some coffee.'

Sherlock was on his stool again, a set of forceps in hand as he scanned the handkerchief for clues. 'If you're texting Molly, you can just say as much.'

'Fine, you git. I'll ring Molly _and _put the coffee on. We might need help.' Sherlock huffed in dissent. '_No_, Sherlock. We're doing this together. The way we should have been doing it from the beginning.'

'I believe our crowded sitting room would argue that's how we _were _doing it in the beginning.'

'We were short a consulting detective.' A corner of Sherlock's lip twitched up. 'I'm calling in our backup. Let's get this sorted once and for all.'


	14. Chapter 14: Nach und Nach

Baker Street seemed almost normal again. So, of course, something was on fire.

Sherlock had set Will up at the dining table with a list of potential substances on Sherrinford's handkerchief and their various combustible properties. John wasn't entirely certain what the purpose of this exercise was, but Sherlock seemed satisfied with the results and Will was elated to be assisting. Meanwhile, a complicated web of string, photographs, and scraps of paper bearing Hamish's impeccable cursive was slowly overtaking the wall behind the sofa. The boy who had assembled it was curled in Sherlock's chair, notebook and pen at the ready, parroting out whatever facts were asked of him and jotting down any requests from the mad genius precariously perched on the sofa.

It was Work. Pure, simple, uncomplicated Work. Facts needed to be processed, theories explored, criminals brought to justice. He wondered if Sherrinford would be pleased.

True to form, Moriarty hadn't left much for them to investigate. There was a definite possibility that the dust on Sherrinford's handkerchief was a red herring. Of course, that concept could be applied to everything they'd received so far, the package itself constructed entirely to lead Sherlock on a false chase and into a trap. For all he knew, Sherrinford and Elaina were still in France or taking a leisurely trip down the coast. His racing mind rejected this option. If there was any chance that Sherrinford was in danger, he had to pursue that avenue to its end and ensure his safety. _Sentiment_, Mycroft would sneer, but he wasn't Mycroft. Some days he wasn't certain he was a Holmes at all.

But that didn't matter at the moment. Nothing mattered but finding them. He bounced absently on the long-abused sofa and contemplated what little evidence lay before him. If Moriarty had broken his usual pattern and hired help instead of cultivating followers - this had to be the case; there simply wasn't enough time for the alternative - someone had to have made a mistake somewhere. He was counting on it, but he knew Moriarty was as well. He could almost hear him giggling in triumph as his favourite plaything danced into his snare. He was playing Moriarty's game now. The rules kept changing and he was never told them in the first place. This had all been designed to make him lose. And yet, he'd beaten a rigged match before. It was all a matter of watching the dealer's hand and ignoring his smile.

His eyes locked onto the map tacked to the middle of the wall. Already large chunks of it had been crossed out in red pen, areas where the residue from the handkerchief could not have existed. They must have taken the Chunnel. Flights were too conspicuous for Sherrinford's liking, so they chose the train whenever possible. They could've trained straight into London, but that obviously wasn't the case if they were apprehended along the way. 111 kilometres from Folkestone to London… There were only so many directions they could have gone, but plenty that may have presented an opportunity for abduction. He could place them in Kent and he could ascertain that they didn't arrive in London. The rest was guesswork and they didn't have time for such nonsense. But somewhere near the M20, something had gone wrong…

'Got it!' The gleeful shout came from a puff of smoke that was currently occupying the kitchen. Sherlock raced across the coffee table and towards the plume, arriving before Will could finish removing his safety glasses. His finger was stabbing repeatedly at his notes, his cheeks burning with the flush of success. 'It's a bit weird, but I've got bits of sand and high-carbon topsoil as well as what looks like limestone to me. May be some peat in there, too.

'That's…very specific.' John ran a hand through his hair. 'Are you sure you've got all that right?'

Will's frustration was more than apparent at the suggestion. A small voice piped up from behind him. 'He got high marks in geology, Papa. And boxing. Didn't he, Dad?' Sherlock was pacing the sitting room, muttering under his breath. Hamish shrugged. 'Well, he did. Plus, Dad gave him a blowtorch.'

'I'm aware of that, bean, but Dad doesn't always practise the_ best_ fire safety-'

'Lime!' Everyone turned to see Sherlock pounce onto the sofa, his face pressed to the map once more. A sharp bark of laughter made them jump. 'Of course! Of course you did! John!' He spun around, his grin manic. 'Limestone!'

'Yes…' John made his way cautiously to the sofa.

'Peterborough, John!'

'That's…a place.'

A long finger pinned itself against the map. 'Excellent observation. More _importantly_, it is the home of Swaddywell Quarry, which supplies limestone to…?' John blinked. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Sentiment, John! It's all about sentiment! I'm starting to think that Mycroft and Moriarty became quite close while he was interrogated.'

'Sherlock, what the _hell _are you on about?'

'Sentiment! Emotions! Affections! He's using them against me, John! He started with the boys, but it didn't work as planned. Now that Moran is gone, he's going to take away the things I care about, too!'

John stared at him a moment. 'I didn't know you were particularly fond of limestone.'

'Not _limestone_!' He stabbed at the map once more. 'Swaddywell supplies primarily to one particular company: _Stamford Stone_.'

'Stamford? _Mike _Stamford?'

'Same name, likely no relation, just a cognitive connection to a select group of people. Namely, you and I.'

'The reason why we met.'

'And a bloody good memory to pollute.' He shook his head, his smile rueful. 'What better name to use against me than his? I thought he was losing his touch, but was merely shuffling the deck.'

'We've got to get out there, then! He must be holding them in the quarry!'

'If not now, he certainly was at some point. There may be clues as to where he took them next.'

'Well, come on, then, puzzle solver!' John was throwing coats to the boys, his phone in hand. 'Call Mycroft and I'll ring Greg. Let's go!'

'But if they aren't still in the quarry-'

'_Call Mycroft_! He's got eyes on half the bloody country! He must have spotted someone leaving the quarry! Come _on_!'

It was only for a moment, but he couldn't take his eyes off of John. His small body was already shrouded in his coat, the bit of give around his chest betraying the past several months of sleepless nights and hidden worry. Their eyes met for a moment: stormy resolve challenging changeable curiosity. There was no telling what might be in store for them, no way of even guessing if Moriarty was lying in wait or simply leaving more breadcrumbs for them to follow. They should leave the children; they should let Mycroft handle it. He should be reasonable. He should tell John to stay in case everything went pear-shaped and they didn't come home.

John's shoulders tensed and Sherlock wondered, not for the first time, if _he_ might be the telepathic one in this house.

_And I said 'dangerous,' and here you are._

His hand found John's of its own volition, squeezing just enough to ensure that it had grasped anything at all. 'Bring the Browning.'

'When did I last leave without it?'

'Good point. William, help your brother with his coat. Hamish, the notebook. And hurry, darlings; there's no time like the present. Mrs Hudson!' His coat billowed. His feet hammered down the stairs. Fingers danced across the screen of his phone. 'Don't wait up!'

'You're leaving again?' Her eyes were red from crying, a bit of flour on her dress from where she'd baked away her nerves, the faintest hint on her breath of herbal soothers. 'The boys, too?'

'Of course the boys too. All hands on deck, you know how it is.' He paused only long enough to kiss her cheek. 'The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!'


	15. Chapter 15: Rasch

London was in the rear-view of the borrowed government car, and everyone was amazed Sherlock was driving so calmly. For John, however, calm was an elusive concept. He squeezed his left hand in time to his own thrumming pulse, his eyes fixed unseeing on the passing scenery.

How much time had he spent anxious in the seat of a car? Tanks and limousines and panda cars, hundreds of them by now, all fixed in his memory, a whirlwind of nausea and chewed lips. He must have lost years of his life this way. Hunting for Sherlock, heading for a skirmish, Mary and Moriarty and Mycroft's old kidnappings. It couldn't be healthy for a person. Yet here he was on another errand, one just as likely as the other battles and chases and traps to end poorly. Running toward the danger, mind empty except for the promise of conflict and the smell of blood. He really ought to ring up Ella again; there was clearly something terrifically wrong with him to ignore his survival instincts so spectacularly.

And yet, there was no other way, was there? Who else would hunt down Moriarty? Who would lead their little troop and go after Sherrinford and Elaina? His racing mind landed on a book he'd loved back in uni, some Michael Crichton drivel he hadn't been able to put down for two weeks. The metaphor was apt and made him smirk. How do you hunt a bear? You chase it down with dogs, or you track it to its cave and kill it. The dogs hadn't worked: Mycroft's cross-continent chase had fallen apart as more leads fizzled out and all clues turned up empty. But Moriarty had told them where his cave was. He'd left breadcrumbs for them, just as he always did. Certainly, it was a trap. Caves were always traps. But he'd be damned if he didn't hunt the bear that was in it.

It might not be the smartest thing, but then John wasn't a genius. He was a soldier. Follow orders. Cover your fellow men. Ignore the danger for the sake of queen and country. The rewards were on the other side; there was just no telling where that side might be. _Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?_

'John?'

'Hm?'

'Stop that.'

His brow came together as he turned to Sherlock at last. 'Sorry?'

'Your worry is deafening. Stop it.'

His eyes caught Will's in the mirror, and he smiled a little as they rolled.

'Any word from Lestrade?'

'Ah. Yep.' He fumbled in his pocket for his phone. 'The local P.D. is being a bit difficult, but he's gotten Mycroft involved. And…' He flicked through to the next text. 'Mycroft is standing by and just waiting for our signal to send them in.'

'Is he being tedious?'

'Not really.'

Sherlock snorted. 'Will wonders never cease?'

Hamish piped up. 'Of course he's not, Dad. He's too worried about Uncle Sherr.'

Sherlock only huffed a little. He didn't protest when John squeezed his knee. 'He's gone soft in his old age.'

'Haven't we all?' John wet his lips. 'I don't think he can live with the guilt of losing him again.'

'Or at least with what Mummy will do if she finds out.'

John's volume dropped. 'Does she know he's missing?'

Sherlock sighed, the lines around his mouth frightfully apparent in the dim light from the console. 'From her perspective, he's been missing for forty years.' His face fell at John's expression. 'Mycroft thought it safer for them that way. He wasn't wrong.'

'They don't even know he's alive?' Sherlock's eyes returned to the road. 'Jesus Christ…'

'It doesn't matter now.' He spun to Will, mouth gaping. Will shrugged. 'We're going to rescue him, right? And he can come home.'

'Darling, he might not-'

'He _does _want to. He told me so, Dad. He doesn't want to run anymore, and Uncle Mycroft will have to work it out now. He'll just have to.'

'It isn't that _simple_.'

'Yes, it is! It's only complicated because you're all making it that way.' His chin tilted, his gaze kept steady with Sherlock's in the mirror. 'Mycroft will clear his name, he and Elaina will move in with Gran and Grand-dad, and we'll finally get to be a proper family. And you Holmeses aren't going to be stubborn and ruin it!'

The car was silent a moment. John could feel Hamish staring, horrified, at him, even as he kept his own gaze fixed on the road. They were both waiting, wondering when Sherlock's stress and impatience would give way to anger, calculating the likelihood Will's own quick temper would escalate and leave the whole car ringing with a shouting match between father and son. It didn't happen often, but battles between Sherlock and Will were hardly unknown: segregated to times of great anxiety; appearing suddenly and ferociously, and leaving both weary, angry, and edgy for days. It was the last thing this ill-fated trip needed, but the first thing either of them expected.

They both jumped at the next sound Sherlock made: not a yell, but a throaty chuckle. John's head snapped towards him, eyes wide at the satisfied grin on his face. 'Why don't we just put them in a room with you, darling, and you can talk some sense into all of them?'

Will's own features softened, giving way to his bright, boyish smile. 'We might have to,' he teased. 'For a lot of geniuses, you're all idiots about this.' Sherlock laughed louder, nearly drowning out Hamish's whine that he, for one, was not an idiot. Will nudged his shoulder and winked.

That's the other thing about war, John considered. When you were in the right company, you stuck together no matter what.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he scrambled to answer it. 'Uh… Mycroft says he's sent a helicopter, but there's some sort of issue going on with air traffic. They should be there soon…'

'We'll beat them there.' Sherlock nodded to a passing sign. 'The quarry is the next exit.'

His eyes didn't meet John's. John blinked a few times. 'What do you think?'

Sherlock glanced in the rear-view. He might have been checking for passing cars, but John knew better than that. 'There's no telling what might be in there.'

'Or who-'

'Or who. If Sherr or Elaina are injured…'

Will groaned softly. 'Oh my god… We're going _in_, you two. If you didn't _want _us to go in, you should've _left _us with Mrs H.'

'And locked us in,' Hamish agreed. 'Probably bound and gagged so's Will couldn't pick the lock.'

'Jesus Christ, _fine_.' John growled. 'We're going in. I'll text your brother.'

'He won't like it.'

'Then he can fix the bloody air traffic.' John was already typing away. 'See if you can find a place to park that isn't a comically easy target?'

'I shall endeavour to do so.' Sherlock took the exit and drove calmly into the quarry, ignoring the signs that cautioned the site to be closed. John's pulse started another spirited mambo and he sank slightly into his seat. It would all be over soon. One way or another, this ended tonight.


	16. Chapter 16: Teufel

Clouds shrouded the nearly full moon, making Will wonder if it might be October instead of July. The night was warm, almost suffocating, but he was shivering. Goose pimples peppered his flesh and the hairs on his neck stood resolutely at attention. He closed his eyes and took a breath, plucking at the elastic band Papa had placed on his right wrist. With every inhale, he silently recited his symptoms: heightened pulse, inconsistent breaths, hyper-vigilance. So it was just another episode. Nothing new there.

Except this time he was in as much danger as his disorder said he was.

Mish's small hand curled around his other wrist. He could feel bright eyes roaming him, examining every inch of his obviously tense frame. He didn't think he could meet that gaze right now. He needed to be brave. They needed to stay put in the car and keep Mycroft informed, just like Papa said.

_But here isn't safe! _

Safer here that out there. Safer contained than wandering a dark quarry, riddled with depthless holes and inevitable avalanches and so many ghosts. No wonder Papa told them to stay in the car, sitting ducks in the dark night with nothing to protect them but this government tin can and a mobile, stupid Mycroft off God knows where and delaying the promised, needed help _we're not safe not safe NOT SAFE!_

'Will?' Mish shook his arm. 'Will, you need to breathe.'

He gasped softly. 'I'm breathing! I'm breathing. I'm fine. Where's Mycroft?'

'Nothing yet. Just like a minute ago.'

'Cool.' He took another breath. The air in the car was heavy and stale. 'Could we open the window?'

'Dad cracked all of them before he left.'

'Oh, yeah? Weird. Didn't notice.'

'Will?'

He closed his eyes again. Anything was better than seeing Mish's frown of concern. After everything else he'd survived, why did disappointing his brother hurt so much? It shouldn't be worse than an iron brand, but it _must_ be to scald this much. At least it only ached in his chest and left no scars and didn't reek of burnt bacon. He bit his tongue, wishing it would pop and flood his mouth with copper and shut off the mad rambling in his mind. 'I'm fine,' he insisted again. 'I just wish that helicopter would get here.'

'Me too,' Mish whispered. Will swallowed down his guilt. 'Should we text Papa?'

'Better not. They could be close to someone we wouldn't want hearing his phone.'

'Yeah. I guess you're right.' He turned to the window again. Will snapped his elastic band a bit harder than necessary. Pulse speeding. Breath shaky. Mind racing. Just another episode. Just another day.

Just like every day of his fucking miserable life.

A series of pops sounded somewhere in the near distance. Will bolted upright. 'What was that?'

'I don't- _Will!_' He was already running, tearing into the darkness towards what could only be gunshots. Hamish scrambled after him, his own panic rising swiftly in his throat. '_WILL!' _He didn't hear Hamish's shouts, the rushing in his ears too loud for anything else. Hamish would have sworn, but he didn't have enough air to force the words from his chest.

Will was faster than him, the years of footie and rugby matches with Papa giving him a distinct advantage. Hamish kept us as best he could, dodging boulders and choking on dust, Will's crinkled jersey firmly in his line of sight. This wasn't supposed to end like this! He hated the thought, but they were only children. They shouldn't be the ones chasing down the bad guys. Where was Mycroft? Where was Uncle Greg? The quarry was massive: far too large for Dad and Papa to search on their own. They shouldn't be alone out here even without the potential of running into Moriarty or his gang.

Will appeared out of nowhere, stock-still and taut as a bowstring. He nearly ran into him and ended up in an undignified crouch before he realised what had caused his brother's sudden halt.

He found himself madly glad he hadn't bothered to wonder if things could be any worse. Following the natural course of his young life, Worse was already waiting for him.

'Hullo, boys!' That voice. Those shiny shoes. The dead shark eyes. He could almost feel Will's heart beating so hard it might explode, adrenaline coursing through him too fast and screaming _RUN RUN RUN_.He wanted to yank him away, dash for the nearest cave or shaft and disappear into the dark. They might die down there, but Might was a better bet than the Definitely Would they were currently staring at. 'Is your dad around by chance? I think I found something of his. Well.' He rolled his eyes. 'Something _else _of his. Four with you two in the mix. He's so silly, leaving his things around like he does.' He chuckled fondly, as if their father were some pet of his, prone to embarrassing him in front of the neighbours. 'It's wildly irresponsible. I hope he learns better some day.'

Fury burned in his chest, but he shoved it down. Anger wouldn't help him now; it would only make him sloppy. He might not be that clever, but he'd learned a few things from living with Captain John Watson and his mad detective. He found himself standing and moving closer, brushing gravel from his clothes and casually placing himself between Moriarty and his terrified, frozen brother. 'He's looking for you, actually.'

'You know,' Moriarty mused, tapping his lips, 'I thought he might be. Wandering around this quarry with Johnny behind him. Honestly, he can't help himself.'

'Where's Sherr?' Will was still shaking, but his fear was struggling with rage. 'And Elaina? I swear to God, if you hurt them-'

'Whoa now! Slow down, noodle!' Will's hand clenched at the name. 'He's getting ahead of himself, isn't he?' He smirked. 'Do you play cards? No? That's alright; I think you'll understand this concept.' He leaned closer, grinning as he popped his cinnamon gum. 'When you're playing poker, you don't show your hand until you know you've already won. Does that make sense?'

'But you already did.' Hamish's voice had taken on that deadly calm again, the one that amazed and frightened Will in equal measure. 'You showed Dad everything he needed to know.'

'He likes to tell you that, doesn't he?' He smiled, hands sliding into his pockets with the same casual ease someone else would have at an afternoon soiree. 'I can see you lot now, all snuggled up in Baker Street with your little cuppas and the fire roaring. Is that your bedtime story, Hammy? Does it make the nightmares go away?' Will flinched behind him. Hamish didn't need to see it to know it had happened; the hunger in Moriary's eyes told him everything he needed to know. 'You didn't expect me to know about those, did you? That was very stupid of you.'

Will gritted his teeth. 'You don't scare me.'

'Yes, I do.' He sauntered closer. 'You're terrified of me.'

'Am not.'

'It's alright, noodle. I won't tell anyone. Nor will Hammy. Tell him, Hammy. You won't tell any of the boys at school, will you? Especially…what was his name? Big, ugly bloke. You bloodied his nose just before term ended?' Hamish's blood ran cold. He prayed it didn't show, but when had he ever been that lucky? 'That was quite a show. I can't believe Johnny got you out of that one. I nearly called to try and recruit you for my lot. You've a better left hook than half of them.'

Hamish forced himself to swallow. _He knows our school. He's been watching us all along. _It was so obvious now. If he could cart them out of their own bedroom in the middle of the night, why wouldn't he be watching their school? He'd probably followed them home every day since they'd escaped. He probably followed them to the park and Angelo's; he probably knew what Will had gotten for his birthday. _But we'd been so careful! We'd had our guard up for so long! And it did NOTHING! _

His smug smile told Hamish he'd heard every terrified, skittering thought that had wandered through his brain. 'No, we won't tell anyone about your nightmares. You can trust us on that.' He tilted his head. 'I used to have nightmares all the time. Terrible ones. They worried my parents sick. They'd tell me stories, too, but they never helped. Would you like me to tell you what finally fixed them? What I did to make the nightmares go away?' He was so close now. Hamish began to wonder if he might be close enough to hear the throbbing in his chest. Moriarty grinned. The scent of gum washed over them and turned his stomach. 'I learned how to make them for other people.'


	17. Chapter 17: Suchen

His mind had gone quiet. He had wondered about that the first time it happened, years ago now in the desert. There was so much to think about, to process, so wouldn't it make more sense for his thoughts to be moving as quickly as the conditions around him? It was only after everything fell apart and he was stitching up a wounded lieutenant surrounded by less fortunate comrades that he realised why it had happened. There was too much noise for his brain to add to the clutter. He'd moved with instinct and faith in his men, and they'd gotten out alive and mostly intact. What did proper procedure or logic matter, so long as the system worked?

It was much the same now, but with a smaller squadron. His steps were deliberate and silent, hands on his gun, eyes sucking in every detail around them. Sherlock walked like a cat behind him, backwards with eyes on John's six, not even his coat rustling as they searched the quarry. The silence was too eerie for John's liking. No distant aircraft. No cars. No birds. They may have been outside the city, but they were close enough to humanity to warrant at least one of those things. The hair on the back of his neck seemed to rise progressively with each passing moment.

Sherlock's hand was on his arm and John stopped in his tracks. His back pressed closer to Sherlock's on instinct, not wanting to look away from the terrain before him and be ambushed. Sherlock's breath was hot and his voice insistent.

'Unknowns at eight o'clock. Boulder at nine.'

John nodded and they moved as one behind the rock in question, hunkering down as they would with any convenient skip in an alley. John checked the Browning's safety out of habit, poised to jump out if necessary but ready to wait the strangers out. The men walked past, their boots deafening against the grainy earth. One was smoking. The other let out an echoing snort at some grumbled comment. 'Sloppy,' he heard Sherlock growl and smiled a little at the thought. The derision was well deserved, but John found himself relieved. Sherlock had been right: these were not Moriarty's preferred pack of helpers. They may be large and armed – of that he was certain – but they were not Moriarty's lapdogs. Such reckless mistakes would never be tolerated in his long-term companions. The men were mercenaries, nothing more.

They were also loitering.

John's frustration rose swiftly. Minutes were passing, and they had already been gone from the boys too long. He chanced a glance around the boulder. The strangers were sharing the cigarette now, murmuring at each other. Their posture was relaxed, stances uneven. One had a shotgun broken over his arm. A loud, slipshod weapon, more for show than use. They weren't anticipating any company, John was certain.

Good.

He turned back to Sherlock, his quicksilver eyes almost glowing in the gloom. His free hand sped through the familiar patterns: two targets, facing east, separate, surround, subdue. Sherlock nodded once and they stood in unison, moving swiftly and silently to the unsuspecting amateurs.

It was over in a matter of moments. The men lay unconscious and zip-tied, the shotgun unloaded and stashed away. 'That should give Lestrade some fun later,' Sherlock growled. His lip quirked into half a grin. It was the most beautiful sight John had seen all day. Sherlock bent closer, rummaging through the sparse contents of their pockets. His fingers danced as they flicked away lint. 'Low levels, though. Potatoes when we want meat.'

'That hardly seems appropriate, love.'

'Hush. You're making me enjoy this.' He glanced around the vacant grounds. 'Could Moran have been his last confidante? I know we dismantled his network, but I never dreamed we had caught all of the stragglers.'

'That was fifteen years ago. Perhaps they disappeared. Died, maybe.'

He huffed a laugh. 'Should we be so lucky.' His head tilted to one side as a he examined the ID of one of their catatonic companions. 'Serbia… He's far from home.'

'And this one looks South Asian,' John nodded to the other. 'Pakistani, I think. Judging by the accent.'

'You're watching too many travel programs.'

The air was filled with a deafening pop. Sherlock jumped from his crouched position, the contents of the wallet scattering across the ground. John's hands had moved without his knowledge, the Browning already making a quick surveillance of their surroundings. 'That sounded like a Sig. From-' The blood drained from his face. 'Shit, from back near the car.'

Sherlock was already tearing across the grounds. John swore fiercely under his breath before immediately giving chase. He watched the landscape pass in his periphery, gaze trained on the flapping coat before him.

_If we live through tonight, I'm handcuffing that prat's ankles._

He dove forward, catching Sherlock around the knees and dragging him down, hand moving just fast enough to shove against his lips and stifle the startled yelp. His legs wrapped tightly around Sherlock's struggling form as he wrestled him to the ground, lips jamming against the shell of his ear. '_Hush!_' he hissed through his teeth. 'I saw something!'

Sherlock stilled immediately, his eyes wide and ears straining. John focused his attentions on the muffled voices not so far away now. Three men, at least. No- Two men and a woman. Not local, but he couldn't place the accents. Sherlock seemed to be having more luck; there was a murmur near his cheek. '_Shanghai. Jerusalem. Belfast._' He did his best to ignore him. It wasn't important right now, at least not for John. Sherlock might be able to decipher a weak spot from discerning that someone lived on Hope Street and not Queens Road, but John was more concerned with the weapon in their hands, their combat training, their numbers versus his.

He heard the cocking of a gun – the mysterious Sig, he was sure of it - and froze. They hadn't seen Sherlock. They couldn't have. There would have been shots fired already. What, then? Another pack of them faffing around? A radio crackled, the woman's voice responding quickly. He strained to hear. Target acquired. …Two of them. _Two?_

'Sherr and Elaina?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'That target was already acquired. Can't be them.'

'Lestrade, then?'

She was speaking again, a smile in her voice. For the first time, the words were crystal clear.

'Ten-four. Coming for the brats now.'

A stone dropped into John's belly.

Of course. Of _course_ he did.

His limbs tightened around Sherlock, fighting to keep him from darting after the mercenaries.

'John!'

'I know,' he whispered. '_Wait._'

'WAIT?'

'They'll see you!' He pressed his forehead into Sherlock's temple, fighting to keep the tears from erupting. 'We can't help them if we're dead!'

'Nor them if _they're_-'

'_Don't_! Don't _fucking _say it!'

'John-'

'Wait!'

Sherlock was trembling against him. He closed his eyes and focused on the retreating steps of the soldiers. Just another moment more. Wait for the field to clear, then move for the extraction. It's all the same as it always was, just with a smaller squadron.

The mercenaries moved slowly. They weren't in any rush. They didn't expect an altercation.

_But they'll bloody well get one now._


	18. Chapter 18: Entdeckung

It was ten metres to the nearest gulch. Hamish's eyes had adjusted enough to tell him that much. They could make a run for it, jump in, hope it wasn't too deep or too jagged at the bottom. It wasn't the best solution, and his brain whirled with all of the possible – likely - negative outcomes. But Moriarty was circling them like a wolf and Will was shaking all over and _likely negative _sounded rather attractive right now when all things were considered fairly.

That's when he heard the second gunshot.

Moriarty glanced over his shoulder, his gum popping in his mouth. It sounded like a nail hitting a coffin. 'Well, now. What could that be, I wonder?' His tone suggested he knew just what it was, that the two of them could also make a safe and unhappy assumption. 'What do you think, noodle? Do you think my boys found some intruder lurking in the shadows?'

'Don't listen to him, Mish.' Will's voice wavered wildly. 'He's just trying to scare us.'

_Of course he is, _Hamish thought. _And it's working, isn't it?_

'I did tell them to shoot on sight. They've gotten that much right so far.' His sigh was world-weary and staged. 'It's so hard to find good help these days.'

'You're having us on,' Will insisted. 'You'll never find them.'

Moriarty stomped his foot and, just for a moment, the cool, reptilian façade collapsed, replaced by a colder, burning fury. 'I don't _have _to find them, William. I have _you_. And they will come for _me_ because they want _you_.' He leaned closer, his nose only an inch from Will's. His voice dropped to a rasping whisper. 'You've lead them right where I want them, right into my hands. Your parents are going to die tonight, William. And it's all because of you.'

The world seemed to move slower in that moment. What resolve Will had held onto suddenly crumbled; twin tears shattered his face. He dropped to his rump, too stunned and guilt-ridden to curl into a ball. Moriarty straightened his spine with a small, smug smirk, strolling a few paces away to look over the gulch from a better angle. Hamish stood marooned, the gravel pressing into the soles of his shoes, the breeze too strong for such a horrid, quiet moment. _If I had written this in a book_, he thought madly, _it wouldn't be windy like this. _He shook the thought away and did the only thing that he could. He went to Will, his hand dropping to his brother's shoulder.

'He's right,' Will whispered, his voice heavy and wrong with unshed tears. 'I ran right here.'

Hamish bit his tongue, his gaze turning to the well-dressed monster only steps away.

_Well-dressed but wrinkled. The expensive suit is older, starting to thin in the elbows and knees. Too loose for his slim frame; he's lost weight since it was tailored to him. There's lint on his shoulder. A scuff on his shoe. The hair on his neck hasn't been shaved recently and no one's told him he needs a trim._

'You don't trust the mercenaries you hired.'

The voice had come from Hamish; it wasn't possible anyone else could have said it. But it didn't sound like Hamish. Will looked up at him, still sniffling, his brow furrowed and mouth parted. Moriarty turned lazily on the gravel, quirking an eyebrow. 'Pardon?'

'You don't, do you? You found them through a formerly reliable source, but you've fallen out of favour with them recently and think they set you up for failure. They care about money, not about you. Not the best quality in a lackey.'

Moriarty stepped closer. Was he furious or amused? Will couldn't tell, and Hamish wasn't about to try and discern it, not while this strange sensation was coursing through his veins. 'You're guessing off of an offhand comment, Mr Holmes.'

'Watson-Holmes. The offhand comment would be an easy enough clue, but you sent them away. They're blundering in the dark, looking for men you know they won't find. You're hoping their carelessness draws our parents out and that our parents will be clever enough to find you. They will, of course; they're both very clever. But this is hardly your best work and you know that well enough. You never would have hatched such an awkward plan if Moran were alive.'

A muscle jumped in Moriarty's jaw: minute and lightning-fast. But it lasted a thousand years for Hamish's keen, otherworldly eyes.

'You're heartbroken.'

'What?'

'You lost the only man you ever cared about. You blame my father.'

''Mish…' Will's voice was hardly more than a whisper of warning.

'You blame _yourself_. You left him at the factory and he ended up dead. You haven't been the same since it happened.'

Moriarty huffed a laugh. 'I knew I should have brought gags with me.'

'You're desperate for revenge and that's where you went wrong. It was never about revenge before. Revenge is petty and useless, but you crave it. You think if you kill my father, you'll finally break Sherlock Holmes. He'll be just as alone as you are now.'

''Mish!' It was a hiss now. Will's fear was getting the best of him. Hamish found himself smiling, the joy of discovery overpowering his anxiety.

But Will was right to be worried, as Hamish quickly discovered. Moriarty was standing closer, a pistol pointed at Hamish's head. 'I've never much cared for these things. There's no poetry to them. And they leave such a mess.' He sighed and cocked the trigger. 'Ah well. It can't be helped.'

'You won't shoot me.'

He scoffed a laugh. 'I really will, Hammy.'

'No, you won't. They're not close enough. If you kill me and they don't see? That would be pointless.'

'Pointless.'

'You're destroying Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? Kill me now and I'm just another body, another case for him to solve and an obvious one at that. Perhaps a two, but only because he knows me. Wait until he's here, until he sees the bullet go through my brain? That's the punch-line, isn't it? The check mate. Your trump card.'

'_Hamish_.'

'Well, I suppose that there would be some satisfaction in finally pushing my brother over the edge. That would certainly cause some psychological trauma for my parents. Papa might go back to counselling; Dad certainly should. But would it _break _him? I don't think so.'

Moriarty's eyes narrowed. 'You're more Holmes than they give you credit for.'

Hamish's eyebrows rose. 'You admire that.'

'I do. But it doesn't shut you up.'

'You don't want me to shut up. You're enjoying this too much.'

He smiled. 'I am rather. I ought to keep you in my pocket. My travelling consulting detective.' His finger relaxed on the trigger, his arm lowering to hang at his side. 'I am going to kill you, though. I wouldn't lie to you about that.'

'Oh, I don't doubt it. But you have forgotten something.'

He rolled his eyes. 'Alright, Mr Poirot. What have I forgotten?'

Hamish's chin tilted up. His voice was even, emotionless. 'Don't you remember what I told you?'

'What did you tell me?'

'My father is going to find you. And he's going to kill you.'

Moriarty chuckled. The gleam was back in his eyes. 'Is he, noodle? And when will he do that?'

'Right now.'

A third shot cracked through the night.


	19. Chapter 19: Die Naechste

Hamish didn't feel anything as he watched the body slowly fold and crumble to the ground. So far as he was concerned, there wasn't much of anything that he ought to feel. He hadn't even been startled when the shot was fired. It might have been that he had heard footsteps approaching without fully processing the sound. He didn't know and it wasn't important regardless. Perhaps, he thought later, once everything had been settled, he should have said something or smiled or burst into tears. Perhaps it was wrong of him not to react. But in the moment, it was a matter of fact.

Papa should kill Moriarty.

Papa _did_ kill Moriarty.

Moriarty was dead.

That was what a dead body looked like.

It was a strange realisation for him that he had never seen a corpse before. Will had, of course; he was prone to accompanying their father on trips to the morgue. Hamish, however, had always preferred the living to the dead. It was an affectation Dad had chided him for in the past, even gently suggesting that perhaps Papa and he had somehow switched the biological paternity of their children. Now that he was facing his first cadaver, the appeal was even less apparent. It wasn't interesting. It was the _opposite _of interesting. Just stillness and quiet and cold on the even colder ground. _Sans eyes, sans taste. Sans everything._

He turned around to find his father stalking toward the body, his gun still raised in both hands and his eyes on what had recently been a man. He knelt, reached for his pulse, and seemed satisfied with the result. It was only then that his eyes met Hamish's, and he saw in them a familiar calm and acceptance.

Perhaps it _had_ been Papa's sperm in the test tube. Not that it mattered anymore.

Papa went to Will then and took the shaking, weeping boy into his arms. He carried him as if he were a toddler and not twelve and nearly as tall as his father. A rustle in the night air announced another's presence. Dad's face was white, his eyes unblinking. Shock? Amazement? Grief? Hamish couldn't say right now. The strange omniscience that had overtaken him was gone now, and baser emotions were wrapping themselves around him like a familiar shawl. He was cold. He was tired. He wanted to go home.

John deposited Will into Sherlock's arms. His expression was all the instruction that was needed. Sherlock held Will close and made his way back to the car. Will's fingers were white and trembling against the dark wool of Sherlock's coat. Whatever words Sherlock offered to his eldest child sounded like a gentle purr in the night air. Will seemed to shrink in his arms, his eyes closed tightly, tears catching what little light there was and glistening on his cheeks. With the others sorted, John turned to Hamish and offered a hand that Hamish gladly took. It smelled of gunpowder. Hamish pressed his face to it.

'Sherr's not here,' he whispered.

'I think you're right,' John replied.

They walked back to the car together. Halfway there, they saw the helicopter.

Very soon, the action will begin. The helicopter will land. Uncle Greg and Mycroft will burst from the cockpit, the whirl of the blades muffling their shouts to John and Sherlock. Greg will go to the body without delay, assess it quickly, and secure the scene. He will begin taking notes on the time of arrival, the present witnesses, and the reason for gunfire. Mycroft will stumble as he exits the helicopter. He will look unusually unkempt, his mind on his crying nephew and his comfort rather than the fiasco at hand. He will spend some time at the car, speaking in quiet, slow tones. Then he will become his usual self. His suit will seem more pressed, the knot of his tie suddenly secure and perfectly placed. He will phone the proper channels, make all necessary arrangements. It will only take a matter of minutes for him to ensure that no legal action will be taken against John Watson, respected doctor and honoured veteran.

The papers will never hear of the death of Jim Moriarty. Monsters do not have the privilege of obituaries.

Not long after Mycroft begins his work, the officers will descend. The Met's finest will accompany a Firearms Unit to make quick work of the quarry and its adjacent areas. A dozen mercenaries will be arrested. They hail from all over the globe. They are all wanted in their home countries for myriad crimes and indiscretions. Most will be extradited to face their overdue punishments. The rest will be handed over to MI6. All will be questioned at length by the agency's top interrogators. They know nothing of Moriarty's network, or any additional hideouts. They were only hired to patrol the quarry and shoot on sight anything that moved. A package was mentioned, but not specified. Upon this revelation, the quarry will be searched again extensively. Bloodhounds will be brought in. In total, the search will last 78 hours and make use of 180 officers and 53 dogs.

As Hamish predicted, they will find no trace of Sherrinford and Elaina.

Mycroft will forward all intelligences to Baker Street. As he reads through the interrogation reports and search results, Sherlock will grow grimmer and grimmer. A dark cloud will descend over the flat: not the usual irritation of boredom but a deep and drowning depression. It will infiltrate the other residents, even silencing Mrs Hudson's unsinkable cheer. The final report – the one stating that the captives are officially still missing – will contain a handwritten note in perfect script. 'I'm sorry, brother,' it will read. Sherlock will close this file and place it in the top desk drawer. He will play Mussorgsky for several hours, then silently retire. John will not ask him why.

He will find the note a few days later while searching the desk for the chequebook. He will drop into the desk chair. Mrs Hudson, making tea in the next room, will think his leg is giving him fits again.

A week later, the boys will be walking home from school for the first time in many days. The weather will be pleasant once more, although neither of them will notice it. They will be too consumed with more important preoccupations. As so often happens on their way home from school – and as a ploy to cheer his brother at least a little – Hamish will suggest that they stop at a corner shop before reaching home. Will, reluctantly, will step inside for a Cornetto as Hamish waits outside. He will turn away from the bright afternoon sun. There on the wall, exactly at eye level, he will see a bit of graffiti: 76 76 76.

But for now…

Hamish squeezed his father's hand as the helicopter's blades throbbed in his ears. He thought of the stories he had read, of their heroes and villains and dramatic conclusions. It was disappointing, really, knowing how inaccurate they were. It was unnerving, being betrayed by his books. How could they get so many things wrong? There was no elation in watching the antagonist at last receive his reward. And the hero shouldn't make some speech about the nature of good and evil and justice prevailing and things like that. There was no sunset to ride off into or victorious cheer.

There was just a boy and his father and a long drive back to London.


	20. Chapter 20: Bestrebt

'I don't want to do this.'

John bit back a sigh, but he couldn't stop the droop of his shoulders. He glared at his reflection, tugging his tie into its proper place with some difficulty. 'Bit late for that, love.'

'It's only ten. The guests won't arrive for another hour and a half. We could still leave.'

'Sherlock.'

'There's a registrar in town if you'd prefer to go there. We can wait until we get back to London, of course. Plenty of offices in London.'

'Sherlock.'

'Or we could go abroad. I know a lovely cottage in Créteil, right on the lake. There isn't much there, of course, but the metro isn't far and you've never been to Paris.'

'I've been to Paris.'

'You haven't been to _proper _Paris. The Septième arrondissement doesn't count; everyone's been there and it's boring. I could take you to a café my grand-mère frequented in her wilder days.'

'Sherlock…'

'You'll like it. They do kippers and mash.'

'Sherlock!' The adjacent room went suddenly silent. John forced his fist open, his knuckles creaking their complaint. 'We can't leave now.'

'Why not?'

'Because everything's prepared and I'm frightened of your mother.'

'She wouldn't blame you.'

'Of course she wouldn't; she'd blame you. Why do you think I'm frightened?'

'It doesn't seem right, John.'

John's brows stretched toward his hairline. 'Twenty years and _now _it doesn't seem _right_?'

'That's not what I mean.'

'Well, then, explain it to me.'

'He's not safe.'

'Moriarty is _dead_, Sherlock. You're welcome, by the way.'

'That's not why.'

'I should think not.'

'John-'

'Sherlock! I know this is your favourite pastime, but you're not making _any _sense!'

'We haven't found them.'

'Found who? The mercenaries are caught.'

'Stop being obtuse!'

'For G-d's sa- _What are you talking about?_'

He fell silent once more. John should have leaned into the other room. He should have stepped inside and _looked _at him to see that his reaction was real and not him pouting at the thought of _people _and being the centre of attention for reasons unrelated to murder. He wanted to kick himself for not doing those things, but it was too late now and Sherlock was certainly upset and John was too angry and frustrated to do the right thing about it now. He took a steadying breath and forced his voice to remain even. 'Sherlock? Is this about Sherr?' He took the continuing silence as a reply in the affirmative. 'You know Mycroft has people looking for him.'

'Mycroft doesn't care.'

'Mycroft cares more than he lets on.'

'That wouldn't be difficult since he lets on absolutely nothing.'

John was about to scream. He was going to tear into the next room and rip off his tie and inform Sherlock that if he was going to be a stubborn arse on their wedding day _of all days_, then he could just go and marry himself. 'We're not calling off the wedding because Mycroft is an arse.'

'This feels wrong, John.'

His voice took on a life of its own, reaching volumes and tones he never intended. 'It feels wrong to marry me?'

'No, of course not! I already said!'

John stared at himself in the mirror, his blood boiling. His tie was askew again. 'I need some air.'

'John!' Sherlock was right behind him. He could smell his shampoo and hear his breathing and sense that warm, right something that always circled his body. He ignored these things.

'Nope. I can't do this right now. I need to clear my head.'

'John, you promised!'

'Yeah? And _you _promised you'd marry me. So I suppose _everyone's _been an arse today.' He slammed the door behind him and headed for the road into town.

He could hear a lot of activity in the garden. Catherine shouting good-naturedly at caterers and florists. Hammers and drills as the last of the decorations were put into place. He didn't even know what they'd agreed on anymore. It was all a blur of fabric samples and questions and Catherine's bubbling laugh. He wasn't ready to tell her it wouldn't happen after all. He could imagine her crestfallen expression, her frustration at wasted work and disappointed guests. How typical of Sherlock to do this _today_. He had to know, didn't he? He had to be aware that John's patience and capability and sunny disposition would run out eventually during this absolute bugger of a year.

Will's nightmares had almost disappeared. Hamish was doing well in school again. There were cases – small ones, but cases nonetheless. And he had been so _sure_, so _certain _that things were finally turning around for them, that they were all safe again. But Sherrinford's clandestine note had never materialised into anything. A promise in chalk for a little boy had stayed just that. And as summer wound down and their set date drew closer, Sherlock had retreated back into himself once more.

John didn't know if he could do this anymore.

'Papa?' He shook his head and looked down, but not nearly as far as he used to. Will was peering at him, his mouth a solemn line. 'You were muttering.'

'It's possible.'

'And your tie's all wonky.'

'Can't get the damn thing-' He blinked a few times and shook himself once more, seeing a familiar man standing beside his son. 'Hallo, George. Lovely morning.'

'Is it? I'm not so sure. Might rain later.' George patted Will's shoulder absently. 'Why don't you go and help your grandmother? I think Mish would appreciate some assistance in wrangling her.'

Will nodded, still giving his father a curious appraisal. 'Is it Dad?'

John huffed a laugh. 'Who else?'

'Yeah. He's like that.' Will's hands found his pockets and he meandered back up the lane, having imparted all of the wisdom deemed necessary by a twelve-year-old boy.

John found himself rubbing the back of his neck. He threw George a tight smile. 'You'd think this would be easy. Second time around for me.'

'Yes, well. It's a bit more of a show than you boys wanted, I suspect. Not that I think anyone is surprised.' They walked slowly, falling into a natural stroll and each other's steps. 'And my boy often makes things a bit more difficult than they need be.'

'That…may be the understatement of the century.'

George smiled, pausing to gaze up at the tent and bunting and distant calamity. 'He's wanted this for so long. I'm sure you know that. He's terrified, of course, but he's wanted to do this with you since the day he met you.'

'He's not doing much to show that now.'

'I know. I'd apologise, but I think you know him better than that.'

He was quiet for a time, watching his freshly shined shoes as they strode along the pavement. John felt his temper dwindling, his mind clearing in the presence of this man. He remembered their first meeting: Will still in Mary's stomach, speaking to his wife for the first time in months. It had ended terribly, of course, but he could recall being struck but this man's calm, his total acceptance of the joyful madness of his wife and sons. He could almost see himself in him, so many years down the line: the single sane port in a storm of Holmeses and Morstans. His stomach turned as he realised how much he missed Mary.

'When we lost Sherrinford, our eldest. I'm sure you know it was quite a shock. We knew he was in danger, but it all seemed so distant.'

John frowned. 'Sorry, when you lost him?'

'He was killed while on assignment. Poor Mycroft had to give us the news.'

'Right.' He swallowed. 'Of course. I'm so sorry, I remember now.'

'It was a long time ago. I know Sherlock doesn't talk about it much. Or at all.' His eyes returned to the house, his voice far off. 'I thought I was going to lose Catie. She wasn't eating or speaking. I was terrified what might happen. I was so worried about her that…I forgot about Sherlock. I know that sounds dreadful. I understand if you think ill of me as a result, but it's true.

'As soon as I realised what I was doing, of course, I gave him all of my attention. But he had shut himself off from me. From his mother, from Mycroft. He couldn't face what had happened and he had to go through it alone. So he stayed in his room. He never joined us for meals. He started reading all of these books about psychology and human behaviour. He actually diagnosed himself.'

'High-functioning sociopath.'

'Yes. And Catie and I, we felt too guilty to disagree. He seemed to take comfort in it.'

John suddenly realised they had stopped walking. He faced his father-in-law, his brow furrowed. 'Why are you telling me this?'

George examined a tuft of grass next to his left shoe. 'I don't know what exactly is bothering him. He hasn't told me, and I know you won't. That's alright.' He nodded to himself. 'But don't make the same mistake I did. Don't let him shut you out. Please.' He smiled. 'I trust you, John. And I know you love my boy. Difficult as he is, I know you do.'

'Yeah. Of course I do.'

'He takes a bit longer than the rest of us to come to his senses.'

'He has yet to do that ever in the time that I've known him.'

George laughed. He wrapped an arm around John's shoulder. 'That tie really does look ghastly. Let's see if I have something in my old kit, shall we?'


End file.
